e tired an' we hungry fur yo' sight,
An' our lim's dey am weary, fur we fou't er good fight,
An' we longin' fur de lan' ob lub an' light--
Cum, dear Lord, cum soon."

And it was well that she sang that song, for it stopped three
horsemen just as they forded the creek and turned their horses' heads
into the lane that led to the cabin. One who was tall and with square
shoulders sat his horse as if born in the saddle. Above, his dark
hair was streaked with white, but the face was calm and sad, though
lit up now with two keen and kindly eyes which glowed with suppressed
excitement. It was the face of splendid resolve and noble purpose,
and the horse he rode was John Paul Jones. The other was the village
blacksmith. A negro followed them, mounted on a raw-bone pony, and
carrying his master's Enfield rifle.

The first horseman was just saying: "Things look mighty natural at
the old place, Eph; I wonder if the old folks will know us? It seems
to me--"

He pulled up his horse with a jerk. He heard singing just over to his
left in the wood. Both horsemen sat listening:

O we mos' to de do' ob our Father's home--
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
An' we'll nurver mo' sorrer an' nurver mo' roam--
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!
An' we'll meet wid de lam's dat's gohn on befo'
An' we lie in de shade ob de good shepherd's do',
An' he'll wipe away all ob our tears as dey flow--
Lead, dear Lord, lead on!

"Do you know that voice, Eph?" cried the man in front to his body
servant. "We must hurry"; and he touched the splendid horse with the
heel of his riding boot.

But the young negro had already plunged two spurs into his pony's
flanks and was galloping toward the cabin.

It was all over when the white rider came up. Two brutes had been
knocked over with the short heavy barrel of an Enfield rifle. There
was wild scattering of others through the wood. An old man was
clinging in silent prayer to his son's knees and an old woman was
clinging around his neck, and saying:

"Praise God--who nurver lies--it's little Ephrum--come home ag'in."

Then they looked up and the old man raised his hands in a pitiful
tumult of joy and fear and reverence as he said:

"An' Marse Tom, so help me God--a-ridin' John Paul Jones!"

CHAPTER IX

THE PEDIGREE OF ACHIEVEMENT

Man may breed up all animals but himself. Strive as he may, the laws
of heredity are hidden. "Like produces like o