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. "Right down yonder at de mill," Jim answered, nodding his head in the direction. "Good Lord," exclaimed Mammy, "dey must 'a' ketched him directly after he went away!" This conversation was carried on in such low murmurings that even a listener at a short distance could not have distinguished what was said; the three were very intent, but did not omit occasional cautious glances in the direction of the house. "Dat's so," Jim replied; "an' den dey shet him up in de mill house, and den I never seed no mo', 'cause I was skeered an' runned away."