"Heh, Mars' Cary, lemme brush you off, seh. You's fyar kivered."

"Look out, you old rascal," Cary laughed, as his wife backed away
coughing before the cloud of fine white dust that rose under Uncle
Billy's vigorous hands. "You're choking your mistress to death. Never
mind the dust. I'll get it back in ten minutes."

Mrs. Cary clasped her hands together at her breast with a look of
entreaty.

"Herbert! Must you go so soon?"

Her husband looked back at her with eyes dark with regret.

"Yes," he said briefly. "I'm on my way to Richmond. How many horses are
there in the stable?"

"Two--only two," was the broken response, as his wife sank down
disconsolate on a bench. "Belle and Lightfoot--we sold the others--I
_had_ to do it."

"Yes, I know, little woman. It couldn't be helped. Here, Billy! Take my
horse and get Belle out of the stable. Lead them down to the swamp and
hide them in the cedars. Then saddle Lightfoot--bring him here and give
him some water and a measure of corn. Look sharp, Billy! Lively!"

In the face of danger to his master Uncle Billy's response was instant.
"Yes, seh. Right away, seh," and he took Cary's lathered animal and made
off for the stables at top speed.