even if she were dead. At precisely twelve o'clock on the day appointed
for the funeral Jake drove his white mule and shay to the door of the
Brock House. He had on his Sunday clothes, and around his tall hat was a
band of black alpaca, the nearest approach to mourning he could get, for
crape was out of the question. If possible, it was hotter than on the
previous day, and the sail cloth top was not much protection from the
sun as they drove along the sandy road, over bogs and stumps, palmetto
roots and low bridges, and across brooks nearly dried up by the heat.
The way seemed interminable to Mr. Mason, for the mule was not very
swift-footed, and Jake was too fond of him to touch him with a whip. A
pull at the lines, which were bits of rope, and a "Go 'long dar, you
lazy ole t'ing, 'fore I takes the hide off'n you" was the most he did to
urge the animal forward, and Mr. Mason was beginning to think he might
get on faster by walking, when a turn in the road brought the clearing
in view.

It had improved some since we first saw it, and was under what the
natives called right smart cultivation for such a place. Jake had worked
early and late to make it attractive for his young mistress. He had
given the log-house a coat of whitewash, and planted more climbing roses
than had been there when the man from the North visited it. A rude fence
of twisted poles had been built around it, and standing before this
fence were three or four ox-carts and a democrat wagon with two mules
attached to it. The people who had come in these vehicles were waiting
expectantly for Jake and the minister, and the moment they appeared in
sight the white portion hurried into the house and seated
themselves--some in the few chairs the room contained, some on the
table, and some on the long bench Jake had improvised with a board and
two boxes, and which threatened every moment to topple over. There were
a number of old women with sunbonnets on their heads--two or three