She shook her head emphatically.  “Oh no, he ain’ dead.  De signs an’ de tokens tells me.  I dremp three nights runnin’ on’y dis las’ week dat I foun’ him.”

“He may have married another woman.  Your slave marriage would not have prevented him, for you never lived with him after the war, and without that your marriage does n’t count.”

“Would n’ make no diff’ence wid Sam.  He would n’ marry no yuther ’ooman ‘tel he foun’ out ’bout me.  I knows it,” she added.  “Sump’n ’s be’n tellin’ me all dese years dat I ‘s gwine fin’ Sam ‘fo’ I dies.”

“Perhaps he ’s outgrown you, and climbed up in the world where he would n’t care to have you find him.”

“No, indeed, suh,” she replied, “Sam ain’ dat kin’ er man.  He wuz good ter me, Sam wuz, but he wuz n’ much good ter nobody e’se, fer he wuz one er de triflin’es’ han’s on de plantation.  I ’spec’s ter haf ter suppo’t ‘im w’en I fin’ ’im, fer he nebber would work ’less’n he had ter.  But den he wuz free, an’ he did n’ git no pay fer his work, an’ I don’ blame ’im much.  Mebbe he ‘s done better sence he run erway, but I ain’ ‘spectin’ much.”

“You may have passed him on the street a hundred times during the twenty-five years, and not have known him; time works great changes.”

She smiled incredulously.  “I ’d know ’im ‘mongs’ a hund’ed men.  Fer dey wuz n’ no yuther merlatter man like my man Sam, an’ I could n’ be mistook.  I ‘s toted his picture roun’ wid me twenty-five years.”

“May I see it?” asked Mr. Ryder.  “It might help me to remember whether I have seen the original.”

As she drew a small parcel from her bosom he saw that it was fastened to a string that went around her neck.  Removing several wrappers, she brought to light an old-fashioned daguerreotype in a black case.  He looked long and intently at the portrait.  It was faded with time, but the features were still distinct, and it was easy to see what manner of man it had represented.

He closed the case, and with a slow movement handed it back to her.

“I don’t know of any man in town who goes by that name,” he said, “nor have I heard of any one making such inquiries.  But if you will leave me your address, I will give the matter some attention, and if I find out anything I will let you know.”

She gave him the number of a house in the neighborhood, and went away, after thanking him warmly.

He wrote the address on the fly-leaf of the volume of Tennyson, and, when she had gone, rose to his feet and stood looking after her curiously.  As she walked down the street with mincing step, he saw several persons whom she passed turn and look back at her with a smile of kindly amusement.  When she had turned the corner, he went upstairs to his bedroom, and stood for a long time before the mirror of his dressing-case, gazing thoughtfully at the reflection of his own face.

III