ches
that a man must respect himself before he should expect others to
respect him. But, my dear Major, I am not here to convince you, but to
convince the negro. He has been buffeted about by political parties, and
now it remains for the church to save him. One of these days an act
rather than a word may convince you."

Tom had come out upon the porch. For a time he stood, listening, then
quickly stepping down into the yard, he gazed toward the dairy house,
into which, accompanied by a negro woman, had gone a slim girl, wearing
a gingham sun-bonnet. The girl came out, carrying a jug, and hastened
toward the yard gate. Tom heard the gate-latch click and then stepped
quickly to the corner of the house; and when out of sight he almost ran
to overtake the girl. She had reached the road, and she pretended to
walk faster when she heard his footsteps. She did not raise her eyes as
he came up beside her.

"Let me carry the jug, Sallie."

"No, I can carry it."

"Give it to me."

He took the jug and she looked up at him with a smile.

"How's your uncle, Sallie?"

"He ain't any better."

Her uncle was Wash Sanders. Twenty years had passed since he had first
issued a bulletin that he was dying. He had liver trouble and a strong
combination of other ailments, but he kept on living. At first the
neighbors had confidence in him, and believed that he was about to pass
away, but as the weeks were stretched into years, as men who had been
strong and hearty were one by one borne to the grave, they began to lose
faith in Wash Sanders. All day long he would sit on his shaky verandah,
built high off the ground, and in answer to questions concerning his
health would answer: "Can't keep up much longer; didn't sleep a wink
last night. Don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive." His cows appeared
always to be dry, and every day he would send his niece, Sallie Pruitt,
for a jug of buttermilk. He had but one industry, the tending and
scraping of a long nail on the little finger of his left hand. He had a
wife, but no children. His niece had recently come from the pine woods
of Georgia. Her hair looked like hackled flax and her eyes were large
and gray.

"I didn't think you could see me," said the girl, taking off her bonnet
and swinging it as she walked, keeping a sort of time with it.

"Why, you couldn't possibly come and get away without my seeing you."

"Yes, I could if it was night."

"Not much. I could see you in the dark, you