And then they passed on to the old, empty grave.  It was decaying away, yawning with its open mouth as if asking for its honored tenement.  Ellen gazed down and sprang in, and ere the others could recover from their astonishment, or come forward to offer her assistance, she looked up in her beauty from the dark spot where she was standing.

“Let me get out alone,” said she; “I have such a prize;” and she held in her hand a bird’s nest, with its three little white eggs deposited therein.

“Oh!  Ellen,” said Mrs. Weston, robbing a bird’s nest.  “Put it back, my dear.”

“No, indeed, Mrs. Weston, do not ask me.  Think of my finding it in Washington’s grave.  I mean to have it put on an alabaster stand, and a glass case over it, and consider it the most sacred gem I possess.  There, Uncle Bacchus, keep it for me, and don’t crush the eggs.”

“I won’t break ’em, Miss Ellen,” said Bacchus, whose thoughts were apt to run on “sperrits.”  “I thought for certain you had see’d de old gentleman’s ghost, and he had called you down in dat dark hole.  But thar aint no danger of his comin back agin, I reckon.  ’Pears as if it hadn’t been long since I followed him to dis very grave.”

“What!” said the Northern gentleman, “were niggers allowed to attend Washington’s funeral?”

“Colored people was, sir,” said Bacchus, in a dignified manner.  “We aint much used to being called niggers, sir.  We calls ourselves so sometimes, but gentlemen and ladies, sir, mostly calls us colored people, or servants.  General Washington hisself, sir, always treated his servants with politeness.  I was very well acquainted with them, and know’d all about the general’s ways from them.”

Mr. Weston could not but smile at the reproof Bacchus had given.  He turned and apologized to the gentleman for his servant’s talkativeness, saying he was an old and much indulged servant.

They turned away from that empty grave.  The young girls round whom so many affections clustered; the fond and anxious mother; the aged and affectionate relative; the faithful and valued servant—­turned away from that empty grave.  When will stay the tumultuous beatings of their hearts?  When will they sleep in the shadow of the old church?  Each heart asked itself, When?

Ere they left this hallowed spot, Mr. Weston addressed a gentleman who lingered with him.  This gentleman was an Abolitionist, but he acknowledged to Mr. Weston that he had found a different state of things at the South from what he expected.

“Sir,” said he to Mr. Weston, “there is a melancholy fascination in this hollow, deserted grave.  It seems to be typical of the condition in which our country would be, should the spirit that animated Washington no longer be among us.”