itty, "do you know Blue Dave?"

Uncle Manuel was old, and wise, and cunning. He hesitated a moment
before replying, and even then his caution would not allow him to
commit himself.

"Blue Dave, he's dat ar runaway nigger, ain't he, honey? I done year
talk un 'im lots er times."

"Well," said Kitty, placing her basket upon Uncle Manuel's tool-chest,
"here is something for Blue Dave to eat. If you don't see him yourself,
perhaps you can send it to him by some one."

Uncle Manuel picked up the basket, weighed it in his hand, and then
placed it on the chest again. Then he looked curiously at Kitty, and
said--

"Honey, how come you gwine do dis? Ain't you year tell hit's ag'in de
law fer ter feed a runaway nigger?"

Kitty blushed as she thought of George Denham. "I send Blue Dave the
victuals because I choose to, Uncle Manuel," she said. "The law has
nothing to do with that little basket."

She started to go, but Uncle Manuel raised both hands heavenwards.

"Wait, little Mistiss," he cried, the tears running down his furrowed
face; "des wait, little Mistiss. 'Twou't hurt you, honey. De ole nigger
wuz des gwine ter git down ter his pra'rs 'fo' you come in. Dey ain't
no riper time dan dis."

Uncle Manuel's voice was husky with suppressed emotion. With his hands
still stretched toward the skies, and the tears still running down his
face, he fell upon his knees and exclaimed--

"Saviour en Marster er de worl'! draw nigh dis night en look down into
dis ole nigger's heart; lissen ter de humblest er de humble. Blessed
Marster! some run wild eh some go stray, some go hether en some go
yan'; but all un um mus' go befo' dy mercy-seat in de een'. Some'll
fetch big works, en some'll fetch great deeds, but po' ole Manuel won't
fetch nothiu' but one weak, sinful heart. Dear, blessed Marster! look
in dat heart en see w'at in dar. De sin dat's dar, Lord, blot it out
wid dy wounded han'. Dear Marster, bless my little Mistiss. Her comin's
en her gwines is des like one er dy angels er mercy; she scatters bread
en meat 'mongs' dem w'at's lonesome in der ways, en dem w'at runs up en
down in de middle er big tribalation. Saviour! Marster! look down 'pon
my little Mistiss; gedder her 'nead dy hev'mly wings. Ef trouble mus'
come, let it come 'pon me. I'm ole, but I'm tough; I'm ole, but I got
de strenk. Lord! let de troubles en de trials come 'pon de ole nigger
w'at kin stan' um, en save my little Mistiss fum sheddin' one tear. En
den,