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Chapter 5: Sally's ride.
On a bright Sunday morning Sally sat upon the gallery of her uncle's house slowly swaying backward and forward in a low
rocking-chair.
In her hand was her prayer-book, but I greatly fear she had not read as she ought, for while her finger was held between the shut covers, marking ‘the Psalms for the day,’ her bright eyes wandered continually over the lovely scene before her. Above her head branches of tender green were tossing merrily in the March wind, at her feet lay a parterre bright with spring buds and flowers.
Beyond the garden-fence the carriage-road described a curve, and swept away under the lofty pines which here bounded the view.
On either side lay fields of newly-planted cotton.
Behind the house, seen through the wide-open doors and windows, the orchard gleamed pink and white.
Still beyond, blue smoke curled upward from the cabins of the negroes in ‘the quarter,’—almost a village in itself: The noise of their children at play was borne upon the wind, mingled with the weird chanting of hymns by the older negroes.
The family, with the exception of Sally, had gone to church,—a distance of twelve miles.
For weeks it had been known that ‘
Wilson's raiders’ would be likely at any time to appear; but continued security bad lulled the apprehensions of the planters hereabouts, and, besides, they depended upon Confederate scouts to give timely warning.
But suddenly on this peaceful Sunday a confused noise from the direction