"Tell us the tale," I said. "Perhaps, by the time you get through, the
haunt will go away and the mare will cross."

I was willing to humor the old man's fancy. He had not told us a story
for some time; and the dark and solemn swamp around us; the
amber-colored stream flowing silently and sluggishly at our feet, like
the waters of Lethe; the heavy, aromatic scent of the bays, faintly
suggestive of funeral wreaths, all made the place an ideal one for a
ghost story.

"Chloe," Julius began in a subdued tone, "use' ter b'long ter ole Mars'
Dugal' McAdoo,--my ole marster. She wuz a lackly gal en a smart gal, en
ole mis' tuk her up ter de big house, en l'arnt her ter wait on de w'ite
folks, 'tel bimeby she come ter be mis's own maid, en 'peared ter 'low
she run de house herse'f, ter heah her talk erbout it. I wuz a young boy
den, en use' ter wuk 'bout de stables, so I knowed eve'ythin' dat wuz
gwine on 'roun' de plantation.

"Well, one time Mars' Dugal' wanted a house boy, en sont down ter de
qua'ters fer ter hab Jeff en Hannibal come up ter de big house nex'
mawnin'. Ole marster en ole mis' look' de two boys ober, en 'sco'sed wid
deyse'ves fer a little w'ile, en den Mars' Dugal' sez, sezee:--

"'We lacks Hannibal de bes', en we gwine ter keep him. Heah, Hannibal,
you'll wuk at de house fum now on. En ef you er a good nigger en min's
yo' bizness, I'll gib you Chloe fer a wife nex' spring. You other
nigger, you Jeff, you kin go back ter de qua'ters. We ain' gwine ter
need you.'