“Las’ night,” he said, “’bout twelve o’clock, a’ter all de lights in de house was out, dey started afoot wid dey bundles. De walkin’ in de snow is mighty bad, but dey thought ’twould keep ole Marse from girtin’ a’ter ’em an’ bringin’ dem back.” “I have no desire whatever to bring them back,” replied Colonel Tremaine with dignity, “and when the war is over we shall exact full compensation from the North for every negro enticed away from his master or mistress. Angela, my dear,” he continued, turning to her, “we must bring in two of the field hands in place of Tasso and Jim Henry, and I will endeavor to recruit for you three or four maids from the spinning and weaving rooms.” Here Mammy Tulip bounced in wrathfully, apologetic, and yet with a species of shamefaced triumph. It was her first view of freedom for her race. Mirandy was her granddaughter, and Mammy Tulip tried to explain Mirandy’s defection. “Tasso an’ Jim Henry an’ de rest on ’em kep’ on arter Mirandy to go wid ’em, an’ things is mighty nice wid dem Yankees now. De colored folks wid dem dance ebery night, and dey can git a fiddler any time fur a quarter, an’ quarters is plentiful wid de Yankees. An’ sech funerals! De music a-playin’ an’ hollerin’ wid pleasure an’ sometimes two or three gret big funerals a day!” Angela was too stunned at Mirandy’s levanting to appreciate this view, but Mammy Tulip, seeing this, assumed a still more apologetic attitude. “Mirandy, she hol’ out long time. She say she cyarn’ lave Miss Angela, an’ ef it hadn’t been for dem funerals, I doan’ believe Mirandy ever would a gone ’way. An’ de larst thing she say was: ‘Please ax Miss Angela to ’scuse me.’ Den she cry an’ say, ‘O granmammy, what Miss Angela gwine do widout me?’” And then Mammy Tulip suddenly whisked herself out of the room so as to avoid being questioned. Hector perforce had gone out to bring in breakfast, a labor which he had long since foregone. As soon as Mammy Tulip and he were out of the room, Lyddon said to Colonel Tremaine: “Hector, as well as the old woman, knows all about it, as you see. No doubt the plans of these young negroes were made long ago, and probably every other negro on the plantation knows it.” Colonel Tremaine looked pained and mystified. “It seems incredible to me,” he said, “that Hector, who has been my boy for nearly sixty years, should know of any such design without informing me. When I took him to Baltimore in ’52, he carried all the money for the journey in a belt around his waist, and when a negro abolitionist would have beguiled him into escaping to Philadelphia, Hector remarked that he had money enough in his belt to buy the abolition negro and all his family. It is impossible that he should change in his attitude toward me.”