rting boy could hear the darkies flying in terror from room to
room, and his little sister at the door imploring mercy for her brother.
Mingled with this noise were the screams and supplications of his mother
until she fainted in the arms of the negress, after which came only the
shrill cries of little Rebecca. Then the stepfather was gone, and the
door bolted on the outside. The badly bruised lad lay raging and sobbing
on the floor, breathing threats of vengeance. By degrees he became quiet
and listened. A strange, unnatural silence reigned throughout the whole
house. When his smarting began to subside his passion cooled a little,
yet he felt wicked; and, rolling on the floor, vowed he would kill his
stepfather.

After a while he sat up and listened for a long time; but there was not
a sound. He crawled from the floor, and the wounds made by the cane of
the cavalier were so fresh and sore that they made him weep anew.

He sat by the window. It had began to grow dark, and he was turning away
to lie on the couch, when he heard the clatter of hoofs and saw Hugh
Price mounted on his favorite black charger, riding toward Greensprings.
Shortly after, Dinah's step was heard on the stairway, and his door
was opened.

"Where is Rebecca?" he asked.

"Waiten," was the answer.

"Waiting for what?"

"For you, Massa Robert. You is gwine away."

"Where?"

The negress did not know; but Robert soon learned that their uncle from
Flower De Hundred had come to Jamestown and agreed to take the children
and rear them.

"When are we to go, Dinah?"

"To-morrow, Massa."

"Is that why Mr. Price left?"

"Yes um. Him say neber want to see you again."

"Shall I see mother?"

"Yes, in de mornin'. Heah am yer suppah chile; now eat it an den go to
sleep, honey, for it am all ober."

Consequently next morning at early daylight the children were mounted on
horses, the chief mode of travel in Virginia at that time, and,
accompanied by their aunt's husband and two negro slaves, they set off
on the long journey. Mrs. Price kissed them a tearful adieu and wept as
if her heart would break. This unfortunate woman was more weak than bad.
By one who has not made a study of the human heart and is incapable of
an analysis of woman, Mrs. Price will not be understood. There are many
women like her, and, disagreeable as the type may seem, it exists, and
the artist who is true to nature must paint nature as he finds it.

Three years were passed