hey began to discuss neighborhood
happenings, he was all attention.

The more interested he grew, it seemed to him, the lower they pitched
their voices. Creeping carefully across the floor, he curled up on his
pillow just inside the doorway, where the shadows fell heaviest, and
where he could enjoy every word of the conversation, without straining
his ears to listen.

"Gawge Chadwick came home yestiddy," announced Uncle Billy.

"Sho now!" exclaimed Mammy. "Not lame Jintsey's boy! You don't mean it!"

"That's the ve'y one," persisted Uncle Billy. "Gawge Washington
Chadwick. He's a ministah of the gospel now, home from college with a
Rev'und befo' his name, an' a long-tailed black coat on. He doesn't look
much like the little pickaninny that b'long to Mars' Nat back in wah
times."

"And Jintsey's dead, poah thing!" exclaimed Aunt Susan. "What a day it
would have been for her, if she could have lived to see her boy in the
pulpit!"

Conversation never kept on a straight road when these three were
together. It was continually turning back by countless by-paths to the
old slavery days. The rule of their master, Nat Chadwick, had been an
easy one. There had always been plenty in the smoke-house and
contentment in the quarters. These simple old souls, while rejoicing in
their freedom, often looked tenderly back to the flesh-pots of their
early Egypt.

John Jay had heard these reminiscences dozens of times. He knew just
what was coming next, when Uncle Billy began telling about the day that
young Mars' Nat was christened. Mis' Alice gave a silver cup to
Jintsey's baby, George Washington, because he was born on the same day
as his little Mars' Nat. John Jay knew the whole family history. He was
very proud of these people of gentle birth and breeding, whom Sheba
spoke of as "ou' family." One by one they had been carried to the little
Episcopal churchyard on the hill, until only one remained. The great
estate had passed into the hands of strangers. Only to Billy and Susan
and Sheba, faithful even unto death, was it still surrounded by the halo
of its old-time grandeur.

Naturally, young Nat Chadwick, the last of the line, had fallen heir to
all the love and respect with which they cherished any who bore the
family name. To other people he was a luckless sort of fellow, who had
sown his wild oats early, and met disappointment at every turn. It was
passed about, too, that there was a romance in his life which had
changed a