d timbers.

Derwood Manor had been burned to the ground!

Staggered by the sight, almost reeling from the saddle, he drove the
spurs into his horse, dashed through the ruined gate, and drew rein at
the one unburned cabin. A young negro woman stood in the door.

For an instant he could hardly trust himself to speak.

"I am Mr. Gregg," he said in a choking voice, "and was here ten years
ago. When did this happen?" and he pointed to the blackened ruins. He
had thrown himself from his saddle and stood looking into her face,
the bridle in his hand.

"In de summer time--las' August, I think."

"Where's your mistress? Was she here when the house was burned?"

"I ain't got no mist'ess--not now. Oh, you mean de young mist'ess what
used to lib here? Aunt Dinah cooked for 'em--she b'longed to 'em."

"Yes, yes," urged Gregg.

"She's daid!"

"My God! Not when the house was burned?"

"No, she warn't here. She was down in Baltimo'--she went dar after de
Jedge died. But she's daid, fo' sho', 'cause Aunt Dinah was wid her,
and she tol' me."

Adam dropped upon a bench outside the door of the cabin and began
passing his hand nervously over his forehead as if he would relieve a
pain he could not locate. A cold sweat stood on his brow; his knees
shook.

The woman kept her eyes on him. Such incidents were not uncommon.
Almost every day strangers on their way South had passed her cabin,
looking for friends they would never see again--a woman for her
husband; a mother for her son; a father for his children. Unknown
graves and burned homes could be found all the way to the Potomac and
beyond. This strong man who seemed to be an officer, was like all the
others.

For some minutes Adam sat with his head in his hand; his elbows on his
knees, the bridle still hooked over his wrist. Hot tears trickled
between his closed fingers and dropped into the dust at his feet. Then
he raised his head, and with a strong effort pulled himself together.

"And the little boy--or rather the son--he must be grown now. Philip
was his name--what has become of him?" He had regained something of
his old poise--his voice and manner showed it.

"I ain't never yeard what 'come 'o him. Went in de army, I reck'n.
Daid, I spec'--mos' ev'ybody's daid dat was here when I growed up."

Adam turned his head and looked once more at the blackened ruins.
What further story was yet to come from their ashes?

"One more question, please. Were you here when the fir