“No, I thank you.  It’s time fer ole folks to go to bed.  Good night!  An’, Bobby, I hopes to see you agin’.”

CHAPTER XX.

A REVELATION.

It was a lovely evening for the journey.  The air was soft and balmy.  The fields and hedges were redolent with flowers.  Not a single cloud obscured the brightness of the moon or the splendor of the stars.  The ancient trees were festooned with moss, which hung like graceful draperies.  Ever and anon a startled hare glided over the path, and whip-poor-wills and crickets broke the restful silence of the night.  Robert rode quietly along, quaffing the beauty of the scene and thinking of his boyish days, when he gathered nuts and wild plums in those woods; he also indulged pleasant reminiscences of later years, when, with Uncle Daniel and Tom Anderson, he attended the secret prayer-meetings.  Iola rode along, conversing with Aunt Linda, amused and interested at the quaintness of her speech and the shrewdness of her intellect.  To her the ride was delightful.

“Does yer know dis place, Robby,” asked Aunt Linda, as they passed an old resort.

“I should think I did,” replied Robert.  “It is the place where we held our last prayer-meeting.”

“An’ dere’s dat ole broken pot we used, ter tell ’bout de war.  But warn’t ole Miss hoppin’ wen she foun’ out you war goin’ to de war!  I thought she’d go almos’ wile.  Now, own up, Robby, didn’t you feel kine ob mean to go off widout eben biddin’ her good bye?  An’ I ralely think ole Miss war fon’ ob yer.  Now, own up, honey, didn’t yer feel a little down in de mouf wen yer lef’ her.”

“Not much,” responded Robert.  “I only thought she was getting paid back for selling my mother.”

“Dat’s so, Robby! yore mudder war a likely gal, wid long black hair, an’ kine ob ginger-bread color.  An’ you neber hearn tell ob her sence dey sole her to Georgia?”

“Never,” replied Robert, “but I would give everything I have on earth to see her once more.  I do hope, if she is living, that I may meet her before I die.”

“You’s right, boy, cause she lub’d you as she lub’d her own life.  Many a time hes she set in my ole cabin an’ cried ‘bout yer wen you war fas’ asleep.  It’s all ober now, but I’se gwine to hole up fer dem Yankees dat gib me my freedom, an’ sent dem nice ladies from de Norf to gib us some sense.  Some ob dese folks calls em nigger teachers, an’ won’t hab nuffin to do wid ’em, but I jis’ thinks dey’s splendid.  But dere’s some triflin’ niggers down yere who’ll sell der votes for almost nuffin.  Does you ‘member Jake Williams an’ Gundover’s Tom?  Well dem two niggers is de las’ ob pea-time.  Dey’s mighty small pertaters an’ few in a hill.”

“Oh, Aunt Linda,” said Robert, “don’t call them niggers.  They are our own people.”

“Dey ain’t my kine ob people.  I jis’ calls em niggers, an’ niggers I means; an’ de bigges’ kine ob niggers.  An’ if my John war sich a nigger I’d whip him an’ leave him.”