almost cruel--she is so tired of life."

"I know, my dear," responded the old lady, wiping her eyes; "and we have
our troubles, too. Champe is in prison now, and Mr. Lightfoot is very much
upset. He says this General Grant is not like the others, that he knows
him--and he's the kind to hang on as long as he's alive."

"But we must win in the end," said Betty, desperately; "we have sacrificed
so much, how can it all be lost?"

"That's what Mr. Lightfoot says--we'll win in the end, but the end's a long
way off. By the way, did you know that Car'line had run off after the
Yankees? When I think how that girl had been spoiled!"

"Oh, I wish they'd all go," returned Betty. "All except Mammy and Uncle
Shadrach and Hosea--and even they make starvation that much nearer."

"Well, we shan't starve yet awhile, dear; I'm in hopes that Congo will
ransack the town. If you would only stay."

But Betty shook her head and went back across the meadows, walking rapidly
through the lush grass of the deserted pastures. Her mind was so filled
with Mrs. Lightfoot's forebodings, that when, in climbing the low stone
wall, she saw the free negro, Levi, coming toward her, she turned to him
with a gesture that was almost an appeal for sympathy.

"Uncle Levi, these are sad times now," she said. "I am looking for
something for mamma's supper and I can find nothing."

The old negro, shabbier, lonelier, poorer than ever, shambled up to the
wall where she was standing and uncovered a split basket full of eggs.

"I'se got a pa'cel er hens hid in de woods over yonder," he explained, "en
I keep de eggs behin' de j'ists in my cabin. Sis Floretty she tole me dat
de w'ite folks wuz wuss off den de niggers now, so I brung you dese."

"Oh, Uncle Levi!" cried Betty, seizing his gnarled old hands. As she looked
at his stricken figure a compassion as acute as pain brought the quick
tears to her eyes. She remembered the isolation of his life, the scornful
suspicion he had met from white and black, and the injustice that had set
him free and sold Sarindy up the river.

"You wuz moughty good ter me," muttered free Levi, shuffling his bare feet
in the long grass, "en Marse Dan, he wuz moughty good ter me, too, 'fo' he
went away on dat black night. I 'members de time w'en dat ole Rainy-day
Jones up de big road (we all call him Rainy-day caze he looked so sour) had
me right by de collar wid de hick'ry branch a sizzlin' in de a'r, en I des
'lowed de een had mo