Aunt Phebe said:

"Speaking of work makes me think to tell you about an old colored man
who came to my door last winter. He was so cold he could hardly talk,
but seeing some coal before the door wanted to put it in for me. I asked
him in, and he grew warmer after a little. I made a cup of hot
composition tea for him, and while he was putting in the coal hunted up
an old coat that one of our neighbors had given me for carpet rags, and
when the poor old man told me his story I felt like proclaiming it to
the city. Never mind that now. He lived through the winter and did not
freeze, and last summer found considerable work, but I have thought for
some time how valuable his help would be to William, my father, and I
wonder if he could find a place to live in here among you. His name is
Matthias Jones, and he is faithful though slow, but the constant
dropping, you know, wears a stone. I like the old man, and you would,
for he is honest and ambitious. He might have owned a farm himself if
the evil of slavery had not crushed under its foot the seeds of growth
that lay within him. Mr. Dutton has helped to get him work."

"Phebe," said mother, interrupting her, "are you going to marry that Mr.
Dutton?"

"I can't say," said Aunt Phebe, and their conversation closed, for
father came in and supper-time drew near.

CHAPTER X.

MATTHIAS JONES.

Father was consulted regarding the coming of Matthias Jones, and he
thought it would be a good plan, for our farming people had often cause
to hire help, and it had always been scarce, since it was only in the
busiest time there were such needs.

Aunt Phebe and myself were delegated to go over to the house of Jacob
Lattice and Plint Smith, who were the only colored people among us, and
who lived about a mile to the west of our house. We thought there might
be a chance for a home among them, and so it proved.

Jacob Lattice's wife had no room; "hardly enough for themselves," Mrs.
Lattice said depreciatingly, "much less any place for strange folks";
but Mrs. Smith, known to us all as Aunt Peg, gave us a little hope. She
had a peculiar way of addressing people, and sometimes her talk seemed
more like the grunting of words strangely mixed. When she saw Aunt Phebe
with me, her face radiated in smiles (and as her mouth was large, these
smiles were broad grins) and, jerking her small wool-covered head while
she hastily smoothed out her long apron, she said:

"Come in, Miss Minot."