"Wur, when I lef' dar, chile! wur, when I lef' dar! Dat all I can say for sartin 'bout libbin'." Valentine groaned deeply, asking: "When did you see her? Tell me everything--everything you know about her." "I happen in dar, to 'quire arter her, 'bout noon. I fin' her all alone, berry low, berry low, 'deed. Flies, like a cloud, settled on her face; she onable to lif' her han', drive 'em 'way; lip bake wid thurst; and she onable han' herse'f a drap o' water." "Oh, God! and the child--the child!" "'Prawlin' on de floor, kivered with flies an' dirt, cryin' low an' weak, like, for hunder." "Elisha, I must hurry; I must fly! Turn back, and walk a little way with me, while you tell me more; but if you see any one coming or going on the road, whistle, to warn me, for I have no permit," said Valentine, dropping behind the causeway, and plunging along through the water toward the city. They could no longer see each other, and their conway. "How you gwine cross bridge widout 'mit, Brudder Walley?" "I don't know; I must try. Tell me more about Fannie." "Well, you know, 'out my tellin' you, how I tuk up de chile offen de flure, an' wash it, an' dress it, and git milk, and feed it. An' how I go for water, and wash her face, and give her drink, an' fan de flies offen her, till she come to her min', like; an' how I'd stay 'long o' her till dis time, ony when she come to herself, she put her two hans togedder, so she did, de chile, and begged an' prayed me to come arter you, her 'dear Walley,' to come an' see her once more 'fore she died, an' take de poor baby home long o' you. An' so, dough I done travel dis yer yode once afore to-day, I takes my staff in my han' an' I sets off; an', franks be to de Lor', dey can't sturve me from trav'lin' de highway, dough I daren't now-a-day put my fut offin it, or onto one o' der plantashunes. So, now, bress de Lor', here I is; an' long as I wur so hoped up as to fall in 'long o' you, all I got to do now is, to 'company of you back to de city." In a few earnest, fervent words, Valentine thanked his friend, and then, saving all his breath, and concentrating all his energies, in silence he toiled on, knee-deep in water and ankle-deep in mud, through the cypress swamp toward the city. Old Daddy Elisha took up the burden of his hymn, and sang or intoned various portions of that weird melody as he walked. Valentine, behind the causeway, in the shadow and the silence, passed unquestioned; but Elisha was frequently hailed by some vigilant member of the voluntary police. If personally known to the questioner, he was allowed to pass; if not, he was required to show his papers; a light had to be struck to examine them, and all this took up so much time, that although Elisha had the high road to walk upon, and Valentine the swamp to wade through, the latter far outstripped the former, and arrived first at the bridge over the A---- River.