We drove between a pair of decayed gateposts—­the gate itself had long since disappeared—­and up a straight sandy lane, between two lines of rotting rail fence, partly concealed by jimson-weeds and briers, to the open space where a dwelling-house had once stood, evidently a spacious mansion, if we might judge from the ruined chimneys that were still standing, and the brick pillars on which the sills rested.  The house itself, we had been informed, had fallen a victim to the fortunes of war.

We alighted from the buggy, walked about the yard for a while, and then wandered off into the adjoining vineyard.  Upon Annie’s complaining of weariness I led the way back to the yard, where a pine log, lying under a spreading elm, afforded a shady though somewhat hard seat.  One end of the log was already occupied by a venerable-looking colored man.  He held on his knees a hat full of grapes, over which he was smacking his lips with great gusto, and a pile of grapeskins near him indicated that the performance was no new thing.  We approached him at an angle from the rear, and were close to him before he perceived us.  He respectfully rose as we drew near, and was moving away, when I begged him to keep his seat.

“Don’t let us disturb you,” I said.  “There is plenty of room for us all.”

He resumed his seat with somewhat of embarrassment.  While he had been standing, I had observed that he was a tall man, and, though slightly bowed by the weight of years, apparently quite vigorous.  He was not entirely black, and this fact, together with the quality of his hair, which was about six inches long and very bushy, except on the top of his head, where he was quite bald, suggested a slight strain of other than negro blood.  There was a shrewdness in his eyes, too, which was not altogether African, and which, as we afterwards learned from experience, was indicative of a corresponding shrewdness in his character.  He went on eating the grapes, but did not seem to enjoy himself quite so well as he had apparently done before he became aware of our presence.

“Do you live around here?” I asked, anxious to put him at his ease.

“Yas, suh.  I lives des ober yander, behine de nex’ san’-hill, on de Lumberton plank-road.”

“Do you know anything about the time when this vineyard was cultivated?”

“Lawd bless you, suh, I knows all about it.  Dey ain’ na’er a man in dis settlement w’at won’ tell you ole Julius McAdoo ‘uz bawn en raise’ on dis yer same plantation.  Is you de Norv’n gemman w’at’s gwine ter buy de ole vimya’d?”

“I am looking at it,” I replied; “but I don’t know that I shall care to buy unless I can be reasonably sure of making something out of it.”

“Well, suh, you is a stranger ter me, en I is a stranger ter you, en we is bofe strangers ter one anudder, but ’f I ‘uz in yo’ place, I wouldn’ buy dis vimya’d.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well, I dunno whe’r you b’lieves in cunj’in’ er not,—­some er de w’ite folks don’t, er says dey don’t,—­but de truf er de matter is dat dis yer ole vimya’d is goophered.”