to hear your story, and see if you have
made up your mind to go with us," said Robert, after he had been seated
a few minutes in Uncle Daniel's cabin.

"No, chillen, I've no objection to finishin' my story, but I ain't made
up my mind to leave the place till Marse Robert gits back."

"You were telling us about Marse Robert's mother. How did you get along
after she died?"

"Arter she war gone, ole Marster's folks come to look arter things. But
eberything war lef' to Marse Robert, an' he wouldn't do widout me. Dat
chile war allers at my heels. I couldn't stir widout him, an' when he
missed me, he'd fret an' cry so I had ter stay wid him; an' wen he went
to school, I had ter carry him in de mornin' and bring him home in de
ebenin'. An' I learned him to hunt squirrels, an' rabbits, an' ketch
fish, an' set traps for birds. I beliebs he lob'd me better dan any ob
his kin'. An' he showed me how to read."

"Well," said Tom, "ef he lob'd you so much, why didn't he set you free?"

"Marse Robert tole me, ef he died fust he war gwine ter leave me
free--dat I should neber sarve any one else."

"Oh, sho!" said Tom, "promises, like pie crusts, is made to be broken. I
don't trust none ob dem. I'se been yere dese fifteen years, an' I'se
neber foun' any troof in dem. An' I'se gwine wid dem North men soon's I
gits a chance. An' ef you knowed what's good fer you, you'd go, too."

"No, Tom; I can't go. When Marster Robert went to de front, he called me
to him an' said: 'Uncle Daniel,' an' he was drefful pale when he said
it, 'I are gwine to de war, an' I want yer to take keer of my wife an'
chillen, jis' like yer used to take keer of me wen yer called me your
little boy.' Well, dat jis' got to me, an' I couldn't help cryin', to
save my life."

"I specs," said Tom, "your tear bags must lie mighty close to your eyes.
I wouldn't cry ef dem Yankees would make ebery one ob dem go to de
front, an' stay dere foreber. Dey'd only be gittin' back what dey's been
a doin' to us."

"Marster Robert war nebber bad to me. An' I beliebs in stannin' by dem
dat stans by you. Arter Miss Anna died, I had great 'sponsibilities on
my shoulders; but I war orful lonesome, an' thought I'd like to git a
wife. But dere warn't a gal on de plantation, an' nowhere's roun', dat
filled de bill. So I jis' waited, an' 'tended to Marse Robert till he
war ole 'nough to go to college. Wen he went, he allers 'membered me in
de letters he used to write his grandma. Wen