“No, chillen, I’ve no objection to finishin’ my story, but I ain’t made up my mind to leave the place till Marse Robert gits back.”

“You were telling us about Marse Robert’s mother.  How did you get along after she died?”

“Arter she war gone, ole Marster’s folks come to look arter things.  But eberything war lef’ to Marse Robert, an’ he wouldn’t do widout me.  Dat chile war allers at my heels.  I couldn’t stir widout him, an’ when he missed me, he’d fret an’ cry so I had ter stay wid him; an’ wen he went to school, I had ter carry him in de mornin’ and bring him home in de ebenin’.  An’ I learned him to hunt squirrels, an’ rabbits, an’ ketch fish, an’ set traps for birds.  I beliebs he lob’d me better dan any ob his kin’.  An’ he showed me how to read.”

“Well,” said Tom, “ef he lob’d you so much, why didn’t he set you free?”

“Marse Robert tole me, ef he died fust he war gwine ter leave me free—­dat I should neber sarve any one else.”

“Oh, sho!” said Tom, “promises, like pie crusts, is made to be broken.  I don’t trust none ob dem.  I’se been yere dese fifteen years, an’ I’se neber foun’ any troof in dem.  An’ I’se gwine wid dem North men soon’s I gits a chance.  An’ ef you knowed what’s good fer you, you’d go, too.”

“No, Tom; I can’t go.  When Marster Robert went to de front, he called me to him an’ said:  ‘Uncle Daniel,’ an’ he was drefful pale when he said it, ‘I are gwine to de war, an’ I want yer to take keer of my wife an’ chillen, jis’ like yer used to take keer of me wen yer called me your little boy.’  Well, dat jis’ got to me, an’ I couldn’t help cryin’, to save my life.”

“I specs,” said Tom, “your tear bags must lie mighty close to your eyes.  I wouldn’t cry ef dem Yankees would make ebery one ob dem go to de front, an’ stay dere foreber.  Dey’d only be gittin’ back what dey’s been a doin’ to us.”

“Marster Robert war nebber bad to me.  An’ I beliebs in stannin’ by dem dat stans by you.  Arter Miss Anna died, I had great ’sponsibilities on my shoulders; but I war orful lonesome, an’ thought I’d like to git a wife.  But dere warn’t a gal on de plantation, an’ nowhere’s roun’, dat filled de bill.  So I jis’ waited, an’ ’tended to Marse Robert till he war ole ’nough to go to college.  Wen he went, he allers ’membered me in de letters he used to write his grandma.  Wen he war gone, I war lonesomer dan eber.  But, one day, I jis’ seed de gal dat took de rag off de bush.  Gundover had jis’ brought her from de up-country.  She war putty as a picture!” he exclaimed, looking fondly at his wife, who still bore traces of great beauty.  “She had putty hair, putty eyes, putty mouth.  She war putty all over; an’ she know’d how to put on style.”

“O, Daniel,” said Aunt Katie, half chidingly, “how you do talk.”

“Why, it’s true.  I ’member when you war de puttiest gal in dese diggins; when nobody could top your cotton.”

“I don’t,” said Aunt Katie.