face bore traces of deep emotion.

"Oh massa!" she said, "de chile am dyin'! It'm all along ob his workin'
in de swamp--no _man_ orter work dar, let alone a chile like dis."

"Do you think he is dying, Rosy?" asked the Colonel, approaching the
bed-side.

"Shore, massa, he'm gwine fass. Look at 'im."

The boy had dwindled to a skeleton, and the skin lay on his face in
crimpled folds, like a mask of black crape. His eyes were fixed, and he
was evidently going.

"Don't you know massa, my boy?" said the Colonel, taking his hand
tenderly in his.

The child's lips slightly moved, but I could hear no sound. The Colonel
put his ear down to him for a moment, then, turning to me, said:

"He _is_ dying. Will you be so good as to step to the house and ask
Madam P---- here, and please tell Jim to go for Junius and the old man."

I returned in a short while with the lady, but found the boy's father
and "the old man"--the darky preacher of the plantation--there before
us. The preacher was a venerable old negro, much bowed by years, and
with thin wool as white as snow. When we entered, he was bending over
the dying boy, but shortly turning to my host, said:

"Massa, de blessed Lord am callin' for de chile--shall we pray?"

The Colonel nodded assent, and we all, blacks and whites, knelt down on
the floor, while the old preacher made a short, heart-touching prayer.
It was a simple, humble acknowledgment of the dependence of the creature
on the Creator--of His right to give and to take away, and was uttered
in a free, conversational tone, as if long communion with his Maker had
placed the old negro on a footing of friendly familiarity with Him, and
given the black slave the right to talk with the Deity as one man talks
with another.

As we rose from our knees my host said to me, "It is _my_ duty to stay
here, but I will not detain _you_. Jim will show you over the
plantation. I will join you at the house when this is over." The scene
was a painful one, and I gladly availed myself of the Colonel's
suggestion.

Mounting our horses, Jim and I rode off to the negro house where Scip
was staying.

Scip was not at the cabin, and the old negro woman told us he had been
away for several hours.

"Reckon he'll be 'way all day, sar," said Jim, as we turned our horses
to go.

"He ought to be resting against the ride of to-morrow. Where has he
gone?"

"Dunno, sar, but reckon he'm gwine to fine Sam."

"Sam? Oh, he's the runaway th