Not long after this, we were surprised, one morning about ten o'clock,
by hearing the horn blown at the house. Presently Aunt Polly came
screaming into the field. "What is the matter, Aunty?" I inquired. "Oh
Lor!" said she, "Old Huckstep's pitched off his horse and broke his
head, and is e'en about dead."

"Thank God!" said little Simon, "The devil will have him at last."

"God-a-mighty be praised!" exclaimed half a dozen others.

The hands, with one accord dropped their hoes; and crowded round the old
woman, asking questions. "Is he dead?"--"Will he die?" "Did you feel of
him--was he cold?"

Aunt Polly explained as well as she could, that Huckstep, in a state of
partial intoxication, had attempted to leap his horse over a fence, had
fallen and cut a deep gash in his head, and that he was now lying
insensible.

It is impossible to describe the effect produced by this news among the
hands. Men, women and children shouted, clapped their hands, and laughed
aloud. Some cursed the overseer, and others thanked the Lord for taking
him away. Little Simon got down on his knees, and called loudly upon God
to finish his work, and never let the overseer again enter a cotton
field. "Let him die, Lord," said he, "let him. He's killed enough of us:
Oh, good Lord, let him die and not live."

"Peace, peace! it is a bad spirit," said Uncle Solomon, "God himself
willeth not the death of a sinner."