“Then you want to go to Mount Vernon as soon as possible,” said the earl, reading the unspoken wish in George’s heart. “Oh, sir, I do want to go; but I think I ought to stay here for some days, to show you what I have done.” “One night will be enough, if you will leave your surveys and papers with me; and perhaps I may myself go down to Mount Vernon later on, when the little one is either better on earth or eternally well in heaven.” George looked at him with eloquent eyes. “If you will be so kind as to let me go, I will come back just as soon--” George stopped; he could say no more. Although just come from a long journey, so vigorous and robust was George that he began at once exhibiting his surveys and papers. They were astonishingly clear, both in statement and in execution; and Lord Fairfax saw that he had no common surveyor, but a truly great and comprehensive mind in his young protégé. George asked that William Fairfax might be sent for; and, when he came, told Lord Fairfax how helpful William had been to him. “And you did not have a single falling out while you were together?” asked Lord Fairfax, with a faint smile. At which both boys answered at the same time: “No, sir!”--William with a laugh and George with a deep blush. All that day, and until twelve o’clock that night, George and Lord Fairfax worked on the surveys, and at midnight Lord Fairfax understood everything as well as if a week had been spent in explaining it to him. When daylight came next morning George was up and dressed, his horse and Billy’s saddled and before the door, with Lord Fairfax, Lance, and William Fairfax to bid him good-bye. “Good-bye, my lord,” said George. “I hope we shall soon meet at Mount Vernon, and that the little girl may get well, after all. Good-bye, William and Lance. You have been the best of messmates; and if my work should be satisfactory, it will be due as much to you as to me.” Three days’ hard travel brought him to Mount Vernon on a warm September day. As he neared the house his heart sank at the desolate air of the place. The doors and windows were all open, and the negroes with solemn faces stood about and talked in subdued tones. George rode rapidly up to the house, and, dismounting, walked in. Uncle Manuel, the venerable old butler, met him at the door, and answered the anxious inquiry in George’s eyes. “De little missis, she k’yarn lars’ long. She on de way to de bosom o’ de Lamb, w’har tecks keer o’ little chillen,” he said, solemnly. George understood only too well. He went up-stairs to the nursery. The child, white and scarcely breathing, her yellow curls damp on her forehead, lay in her black mammy’s arms. The father and mother, clasped in each other’s arms, watched with agonized eyes as the little life ebbed away. The old mammy was singing softly a negro hymn as she gently rocked the dying child