beyond a guess, as the subject of her discourse
had just then appeared in the door.

He was a small, black man, quite old, but with a curious attempt at
jauntiness, as he made his three bows with his one hand on his breast,
the other holding his cane and a jockey cap of ancient fashion. It
contrasted oddly with the swallow-tailed coat he wore, which had
evidently been made for a much larger man; the sleeves came to his
finger tips, and the tails touched his heels. The cloth of which it
was made was very fine dark blue, with buttons of brass. His waistcoat
of maroon brocade came half way to his knees. Warm as the day was he
wore a broad tie of plaid silk arranged in a bow, above which a white
muslin collar rose to his ears. He was evidently an ancient beau of
the plantations in court dress.

"Yo' servant, Miss Sajane, Miss Lena; yo' servant, Mahstah," he said
with a bow to each. "I done come pay my respects to the family what
got back. I'm powerful glad to heah they got safe ovah that ocean."

"Oh, yes; you're very thankful when you wait two whole weeks before
you come around to say 'howdy.' Have you moved so far into the swamp
you can't even hear when the family comes home? Sit down, you're
tired likely. Tell us all the news from your alligator pasture."

"My king! Miss Lena, you jest the same tant'lizin' little lady. Yo'
growen' up don't make you outgrow nothen' but yo' clothes. My 'gatah
pasture? I show yo' my little patch some o' these days--show yo' what
kind 'gatahs pasture theah; why, why, I got 'nigh as many hogs as Mahs
Matt has niggahs these days."

"Yes, and he hasn't so many as he did have," remarked Mrs. Nesbitt,
significantly. "You know anything about where Scip and Aleck are
gone?"

"Who--me? Miss Sajane? You think I keep time on all the runaway boys
these days? They too many for me. It sutenly do beat all how they
scatter. Yo' all hear tell how one o' Cynthy's boys done run away,
too? Suah as I tell you--that second boy, Steve! Ole Mahs Masterson
got him dogs out fo' him--tain't no use; nevah touched the track once.
He'll nevah stop runnen' till he reach the Nawth an' freeze to death.
I alles tole Cynthy that Steve boy a bawn fool."

"Do you mean your son Steve, or your grandson?" queried Mrs. Nesbitt.

"No'm, 'taint little Steve; his mammy got too much sense to let him
go; but that gal, Cynthy--humph!" and his disdain of her perceptive
powers was very apparent.

"But, Uncle Nelse, just remembe