Jutt Orlick, returning from one of his mysterious, periodical visits abroad, had stopped to say that her father had sent word that he would come for her the following week and take her to the school at Proctor. And Orlick, whom the girl distrusted, had not departed without the usual flattery she always half resented. As Belle-Ann sat on the horse-block her little heart was prey to many emotions, and she was well-nigh reduced to tears. Impatient to tell the tidings, she was waiting for the boys, who had been away since early morning, and for the old man to come down from his lofty station. From the cabin door a vague, lank shape came toward her through the shadows. "Yo', Slab!" she called. "Heah me!" responded an old treble voice from the dappled path. When Slab reached the horse-block, although he said nothing to the girl, he took a posture that indicated pointedly that he expected something of her; and she slipped from the horse-block and sat down on the big grapevine family bench a few feet distant. Here a blind hound appeared and, feeling his way slowly and uncertainly, laid his old muzzle in the girl's lap and raised his sightless eyes to where he knew her face must be. Then Slab took Belle-Ann's place on the witch-elm block and produced his beloved instrument--a cross between guitar and banjo, self-made of gut and a gourd. Just as he had done every fair night for years, he was ready to sing his favorite song. He maintained vigorously that if he sat elsewhere than on the horse-block the banjo fell bewitched and refused to answer its master's fingers. Tentatively, he plucked the strings; then launched abruptly into the song he had rendered for years--a sad and stirring melody, telling the early love-story that had been his before the days of emancipation: "You ask what makes this darky weep, Why he, like others, is not gay? What makes the tears roll down his cheek, From early morn till close of day? My story, darkies, you shall hear, For in my memory fresh it dwells, 'Twill cause you then to drop a tear On the grave of my sweet Kitty Wells." When the notes had died away Belle-Ann spoke up: "Slab, ef pap er th' boys don't cum short now, I'll blow th' horn, I reckon." "No--no, honey; doan yo' blow dat horn. Yo' let dat horn blow itse'f if it's got t' blow; but doan you blow it, honey. Yo' jist let pap be--he'll cum heah soon. 'Sides, ain't Slab heah wif yo', honey--ain't Slab heah?" The old negro picked the strings with a preface to the second verse of "Kitty Wells," his condolence being entirely lost on Belle-Ann. As he gathered a solemn breath to begin, the disconsolate girl, sitting on the vine-bench in the moonlight, raised a protesting hand and stopped him. "Slab, ef I don't blow th' horn I jest got t' cry." Slab settled the banjo jerkily between his long, thin legs and rolled indulgent eyes upon her.