The sunshine struck in
arrows across the way, and far ahead, at the end of the long vista, there
was golden space.
With the ten miles behind them, they came to the tavern in the early
afternoon, and, as a small tow-headed boy swung open the gate, the coach
rolled into the yard and drew up before the steps.
Jack Hicks started from his seat, and throwing his pipe aside, came
hurriedly to the wheels, but before he laid his hand upon the door, Betty
opened it and sprang lightly to the ground, her face radiant in the shadow
of her bonnet.
"Let me speak, child," called Mrs. Lightfoot after her, adding, with
courteous condescension, "How are you, Mr. Hicks? Will you go up at once
and tell my grandson to pack his things and come straight down. As soon as
the horses are rested we must start back again."
With visible perturbation Jack looked from the coach to the tavern door,
and stood awkwardly scraping his feet upon the road.
"I--I'll go up with all the pleasure in life, mum," he stammered; "but I
don't reckon thar's no use--he--he's gone."
"Gone?" cried the aghast old lady; and Betty rested her hand upon the
wheel.
"Big Abel, he's gone, too," went on Jack, gaining courage from the
accustomed sound of his own drawl. "Mr. Dan tried his best to git away
without him--but Lord, Lord, the sense that nigger's got. Why, his marster
might as well have tried to give his own skin the slip--"
"Where did they go?" sharply put in the old lady.
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