Gay's horse's hoofs on the dead leaves, she turned with a choking sound,
and fled to the shelter of the kitchen at her back.

"My time's done come, but I ain't-a-gwine! I ain't-a-gwine!" wailed
the chorus within. "Ole marster's done come ter fotch me, but I
ain't-a-gwine! O Lawd, I ain't-a-gwine! O Jesus, I ain't-a-gwine!"

"You fools, hold your tongues!" stormed the young man, losing his
temper. "Send somebody out here to take my horse or I'll give you
something to shout over in earnest."

The shrieks trembled high for an instant, and then died out in a
despairing moan, while the blanched face of an old servant appeared in
the doorway.

"Is hit you er yo' ha'nt, Marse Jonathan?" he inquired humbly.

"Come here, you doddering idiot, and take my horse."

But half reassured the negro came a step or two forward, and made
a feeble clutch at the reins, which dropped from his grasp when the
roosting turkeys stirred uneasily on the bough above.

"I'se de butler, marster, en I ain never sot foot in de stable sence de
days er ole miss."

"Where's my mother?"

"Miss Angela, she's done gone up ter town en Miss Kesiah she's done gone
erlong wid 'er."