that he himself had known hound and saddle in his day; yet he readily
caught the note of the short hunting horn universally used by the
southern hunters, and recognized the assembly call for the hunting
pack. As it came near, all the dogs that remained in the kennel yards
heard it and raged to escape from their confinement. Old Bill came
hobbling around the corner. Steps were heard on the gallery, and the
visitor's face showed a slight uneasiness as he caught a glimpse of a
certain spot now suddenly made alive by the flutter of a soft gown
and the flash of a bunch of scarlet ribbons. Thither he gazed as
directly as he might in these circumstances.

"Dat's her! dat's Miss Lady!" said Bill to his new friend, in a low
voice. "Han'somest young lady in de hull Delta. Dey'll all be right
glad ter see de Cunnel back. He's got a b'ah sho', fer he's comin' a-
blowin'."

Bill's joy was not long-lived, for even as the little cavalcade came
in view, a tall figure on a chestnut hunting horse riding well in
advance, certain colored stragglers following, and the party-colored
pack trotting or limping along on all sides, the music of the
summoning horn suddenly ceased. Looking neither to the right nor to
the left, the leader of the hunt rode on up the lane, sitting loose
and careless in the saddle, his right hand steadying a short rifle
across the saddle front. He rode thus until presently those at the
Big House heard, softly rising on the morning air, the chant of an
old church hymn: "On Jordan's strand I'll _take_ my stand, An-n-n--"

"Oh, Lawd!" exclaimed Bill. "Dat's his very wustest chune." Saying
which he dodged around the corner of the house.