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Updated: May 31, 2025
I hastened down stairs, and at the entrance of the passage stood Chyd Lundsford, looking about, slowly lashing his leg with a switch. "Helloa! Where are all the folks?" "They are gone, sir," I answered, stiffly bowing to him. "Gone? I don't know that I quite catch your meaning." "If it be illusive you have made it so. I said that they were gone, which means, of course, that they are not here."
He went out, and I heard him humming a tune as he tramped slowly down the stairs. I took a seat near the window. Voices reached me, and, looking down through the branches of a mulberry tree, I saw Guinea sitting on a bench, and near her stood Chyd Lundsford. In his hand he held a switch and with it he was slowly cutting at a bloom on a vine that grew about the tree. He was talking.
Ever hear of John Mortimer Lacey? Well, shortly after that him and Lundsford fit a duel and Lacey went to New Orleans and died there. So, don't say anything about it." "About what? Lacey's going to New Orleans and dying there?" "No, cadfound it all, about my wallerin' the General." "I won't," I answered, and then I thought to touch upon a question that had taken a fast hold upon me.
Jucklin was sitting at the window when the hearse and the buggies came within sight, and her chin was unsteady as she reached for her book. And there she sat, holding the old leather-covered Bible in her lap. I had thought that Chyd Lundsford would come, with words of encouragement, but we saw him not, neither that day nor the next. But four days later I came upon him as I was going to town.
So, what is the use of saying anything? Think you are a brute? No, I don't; but you must not talk like that. I can't hear you I won't hear you. Oh, don't worry about Mr. Lundsford. He will kneel at my feet." The next day I took a "turn" of corn to the water-mill, far down the stream.
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