Part 13

It was a morning in the early autumn that Sibyl, sitting at work by an open window, became suddenly conscious of an unusual presence near her, and, looking up, beheld a man gazing fixedly upon her. A party of Federals had that very morning visited the house upon a pretended search for concealed weapons, and the girl, with nerves still vibrating with terror, uttered a little shriek, and, starting up, was about to close the window, when the figure leaped over the low sill, a pair of strong arms encircled her, kisses fell upon her lips, and, ere the shriek of terror could find voice, she recognized, under the rough countryman's hat, the laughing eyes of her brother Sedley.

Such meetings can be better imagined than described; seconds had become minutes ere Sibyl or her mother could begin to realize their joy, which, in its first intensity, was almost pain. Then came the breathless questionings as to the well-being of the other dear ones, then the deep sigh of thankfulness from the long-burdened hearts.

At the sound of a strange voice. Mammy, peeping in at the open door, had fallen prostrate with joy, and, while hugging her boy to her faithful bosom, had called upon her Maker to testify that upon this very morning the scissors had stuck up twice.

"An' I knowed when dey done dat, dat somebody was a-comin'."

Then Dinah, the cook, came in, courtesying and laughing and loyal as though no emancipating army had set foot in Dixie.

When the joyful tidings had reached the children, Rita's thin legs might have been seen flying through the high grass. The more practical Joe toiled behind, bending under the burden of (their treasure trove) a big pumpkin, a basket of persimmons, and a few stalks of sorghum, for, like the Scriptural colts of the wild ass, they passed their time in searching after every green thing.

In the magnetism of the bright presence of the young soldier, all the sad forebodings seemed to vanish into thin air. While listening to his brave words of hope, they forgot that the sunny hours of this most happy day were hastening by. Already the shadows lay long upon the grass, and there remained yet so much to be said and so little time wherein to say it! By set of sun Sedley must be on his way to rejoin his command. His brief and daring visit had been achieved by his assuming a disguise before venturing inside the enemy's lines.

"How did you ever manage it?" asked the mother. "I tremble when I think of it."

"Oh," he answered, "it was easy enough. I came in with a fellow who was driving cattle into town."

"Oh, Sed!" his sister whispered; "you ran an awful risk; how will you manage to get back without being discovered?"

"There'll be no trouble about that," he answered. "Don't you and mother go and worry yourselves about me. I'll be all right, so cheer up and don't look so doleful."

Urged on by fear, they now almost hurried him away, and Mammy, while filling his haversack with provisions, entreated him to be careful.

"De ain't no tellin' what dem Yankees would do ef dey once clapt hands on you."

Sedley might guess shrewdly enough what his fate would be in such case, but he replied, with his old boyish laugh, that it was his trade to outrun the Yankees.

"Never fear, Mammy," he said at parting. "Trust me to beat 'em at that game."

Then the sad good-byes were said, and manfully he strode down the little path, turning only once to wave a last good-by to the sorrowful group on the broad front porch, who watched till he passed out of sight.

The night was spent in anxious watching, but confidence returned with the morning, and all again settled back to their employments and amusements. Sybil wandered into the parlor, and, sitting down to the piano, sang in a low, sweet voice some of the pathetic war melodies. The "colts of the wild ass seeking after every green thing" had sought the sorghum patch, and Mammy had taken a basket into the garden for a final gathering of sage leaves. The day was dreamy, as only an October day of the South can be. The tempered sunlight, streaming softly through the filmy autumnal mist, threw a veil of loveliness over the homeliest objects; the old gray fences, the russet fields, the lonely pastures, where from beneath the grass roots the tiny crickets chanted their low, sweet dirge the long day through, the cawing of the crows from a distant tree-top, all told in notes of most harmonious pathos that "the fashion of this world passeth away."

As Mammy, with back stiffened from stooping, raised herself for a moment's rest, she saw Jim lounge into the backyard and speak to Dinah. Mammy had but little use for Jim in general, but now she felt anxious to know what had been going on in the village, and for that reason she left her basket among the sage and went near to hear what he was saying. As she drew near, Dinah suddenly threw up her hands, and, starting from the hencoop on which she had been leaning, came towards her, stuttering and stammering in a manner so excited as to be unintelligible.

"What's dat you say? For Gods sake, ooman, say what yere got to say, an' be done wid it!" said Mammy, too frightened to be patient. Jim then drew near to her and, glancing cautiously towards the not very distant piazza, upon which his mistress happened at the moment to be standing, he whispered, "Dey's done ketched him."

"K-k-ketched who?" stammered Mammy fiercely.

"Mas' Sedley, dat's who," Jim answered doggedly.

"How you know? I don't b'lieve a word on it."

"Anyhow, dey's done done it."

"Ho' come you know so much 'bout it?"

"'Cause I seen 'em when dey done it."

"Y-y-you have de face to stan' da an' tell me dat you seen 'em a-troublin' dat chile an' you not lif' a han' to help him?"

"How I gwine help him? G'long, you don't know what you talkin' 'bout."

"Whar'bouts did dey come across him?" Mammy inquired.