From over the water, out of the heart of the moonlit wood, came the song of a mockingbird, a tumultuous ecstasy, possessing the air and making elfin the night.
Haward backed his horse from the reeds to the oak beneath which waited the negro.

"'Tis plain that we have lost our way, Juba," he said, with a laugh.

"If you were an Indian, we should turn and straightway retrace our steps to the blazed trees.

Being what you are, you are more valuable in the tobacco fields than in the forest.

Perhaps this is the stream which flows by the cabin in the valley.