Daylight was dying now; he looked longingly towards the gray gables, the only indication of the Carr homestead. Afar beyond the range of woodland the day’s great stirrup cup was growing fuller. Up from the slow moving river came a breath of cool air, and beyond the landline quivered the green of its willows. Dusk had fallen--the odorous dusk of the Southland. In the distance somewhere sounds of sweet voices of the negroes singing in the summer dark, their music mingling with the warm wind under the stars. The night with its soft shadings held him--he leaned long against the window and listened. CHAPTER XI. “Whar’s dat bucket? Whar’s dat bucket? Here it is done sun up an’ my cows aint milked yit!” Aunt Chloe floundered round in a hurry, peering among the butter bowls and pans on the bench, in search of her milk bucket. “I’se ransacked dis place an’ it kyant be paraded,” she said, placing her hands on her ample hips to pant and wonder. Meanwhile she could hear the impatient lowing of the cows and the hungry bleating of the calves from their separate pens. Presently her thick lips broadened into a knowing smile. “Laws ter gracious! If Miss Dorothy aint kyard my las’ ling’rin basket an’ bucket to dem cherry trees. She ’lowed to beat de birds dar. Do she spec me to milk in my han’? I’m gwine down dar an’ git dat.” Here she broke off with a second laugh, and with a natural affection in the midst of her hilarity, which had its tender touch with it. “I’se lyin’! I’d do nuthin’ ob de sort. If she’d wanted me ter climb dem trees myself I’d done it even if I’d knowed I’d fall out and bust my ole haid.” Again Aunt Chloe looked about her for something which would do service for a milkpail. Out in the sun stood the big cedar churn, just where she had placed it the night before that it might catch the fresh morning air and sunshine. At sight of it she looked relieved. “Well! dis here doan leak, and aint milk got to go in it arter all?” So shouldering the awkward substitute, she hurried to the “cup pen” with the thought: “Lemme make ’aste an’ git thro’, I’se gwine ter he’p Miss Dorothy put up dem brandy cherries.” Down in the orchard Dorothy was picking cherries to fill the last bucket whose loss had caused Aunt Chloe’s mind such vexation, and whose substitute--the churn--was now causing her a vast deal more, as the cow refused to recognize any new airs, and so moved away from its vicinity as fast as she set it beside her. Presently Dorothy heard the sound of a horse’s tread, at the same time a voice called out: “Oh, little boy, is this the road to Georgetown?” Elliott Harding had drawn in rein, and was looking up through the leaves. “How mean of you!” she stammered, her face flushing. “What made you come this way?”