Just then Aunt Linda, who had been completing the preparations for her supper, entered the room with her husband, and said, “Salters, let me interdoos you ter my fren’, Mr. Robert Johnson, an’ his niece, Miss Leroy.”

“Why, is it possible,” exclaimed Robert, rising, and shaking hands, “that you are Aunt Linda’s husband?”

“Dat’s what de parson sed,” replied Salters.

“I thought,” pursued Robert, “that your name was John Andrews.  It was such when you were in my company.”

“All de use I’se got fer dat name is ter git my money wid it; an’ wen dat’s done, all’s done.  Got ’nuff ob my ole Marster in slave times, widout wearin’ his name in freedom.  Wen I got done wid him, I got done wid his name.  Wen I ’listed, I war John Andrews; and wen I gits my pension, I’se John Andrews; but now Salters is my name, an’ I likes it better.”

“But how came you to be Aunt Linda’s husband?  Did you get married since the war?”

“Lindy an’ me war married long ’fore de war.  But my ole Marster sole me away from her an’ our little gal, an’ den sole her chile ter somebody else.  Arter freedom, I hunted up our little gal, an’ foun’ her.  She war a big woman den.  Den I com’d right back ter dis place an’ foun’ Lindy.  She hedn’t married agin, nuther hed I; so we jis’ let de parson marry us out er de book; an’ we war mighty glad ter git togedder agin, an’ feel hitched togedder fer life.”

“Well, Uncle Daniel,” said Robert, turning the conversation toward him, “you and Uncle Ben wouldn’t go with us, but you came out all right at last.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Aunt Linda, “Ben got inter a stream of luck.  Arter freedom com’d, de people had a heap of fath in Ben; an’ wen dey wanted some one to go ter Congress dey jist voted for Ben ter go.  An’ he went, too.  An’ wen Salters went to Washin’ton to git his pension, who should he see dere wid dem big men but our Ben, lookin’ jist as big as any ob dem.”

“An’ it did my ole eyes good jist ter see it,” broke in Salters; “if I couldn’t go dere myself, I war mighty glad to see some one ob my people dat could.  I felt like de boy who, wen somebody said he war gwine to slap off his face, said, ’Yer kin slap off my face, but I’se got a big brudder, an’ you can’t slap off his face.’  I went to see him ’fore I lef, and he war jist de same as he war wen we war boys togedder.  He hadn’t got de big head a bit.”

“I reckon Mirandy war mighty sorry she didn’t stay wid him.  I know I should be,” said Aunt Linda.

“Uncle Daniel,” asked Robert, “are you still preaching?”

“Yes, chile, I’se still firing off de Gospel gun.”

“I hear some of the Northern folks are down here teaching theology, that is, teaching young men how to preach.  Why don’t you study theology?”

“Look a yere, boy, I’se been a preachin’ dese thirty years, an’ you come yere a tellin’ me ’bout studying yore ologies.  I larn’d my ’ology at de foot ob de cross.  You bin dar?”