lady,
after a while, showed me over the building. It was well-built,
well-arranged, and had many conveniences I did not expect to find in a
backwoods dwelling. She told me its timbers and covering were of
well-seasoned yellow pine--which will last for centuries--and that it
was built by a Yankee carpenter, whom they had ''ported' from
Charleston, paying his fare, and giving him his living and two dollars
and a half a day. It had cost as near as she 'cud reckon, 'bout two
thousan' dollars.'

It was five o'clock, when, shaking them warmly by the hand, I bade my
pleasant friends 'good-by,' and mounting my horse rode off to the
Colonel's.

The family were at supper when I returned to the mansion, and, entering
the room, I took my accustomed place at the table. None present seemed
disposed to conversation. The little that was said was spoken in a low,
subdued tone, and no allusion was made to the startling event of the
day. At last the octoroon woman asked me if I had met Mrs. Barnes at the
farmer's.

'Yes,' I replied, 'and I was greatly pleased with her. She seems one of
those rare women who would lend grace to even the lowest station.'

'She _is_ a rare woman; a true, sincere Christian. Every one loves her;
but few know all her worth; only those do who have gone to her in sorrow
and trial, as----' and her voice trembled, and her eyes moistened----
'as I have.'

And so that poor, outcast, despised, dishonored woman, scorned and cast
off by all the world, had found one sympathizing, pitying friend. Truly,
'He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.'

When the meal was over, all but Madam P---- retired to the library.
Tommy and I fell to reading, but the Colonel shortly rose and continued
pacing up and down the apartment till the clock sounded eight. The lady
then entered, and said to him:

'The negroes are ready, David; will _you_ go, Mr. K----?'

'I think not, madam,' I replied; 'at least not now.'

I continued reading, for a time, when, tiring of the book, I laid it
down, and followed them to the little burial-ground.

The grave of Sam was open, and the plantation blacks were gathered
around it. In the centre of the group, and at the head of the rude
coffin, the Colonel was seated, and near him the octoroon woman and her
son. The old preacher was speaking.

'My chil'ren,' he said, 'she hab gone ter Him, wid har chile--gone up
dar, whar dey doan't sorrer no more, whar dey doan't weep no more, whar
all tears am wi