“I don’t keer ’bout it myself, but I don’t ‘spect John would be willin’ ter let it go, ’cause he likes it a heap.”

“Then you must give it up for his sake and Job’s,” said Robert.  “They may learn to like it too well.”

“You know, Aunt Linda,” said Iola, “people don’t get to be drunkards all at once.  And you wouldn’t like to feel, if Job should learn to drink, that you helped form his appetite.”

“Dat’ so!  I beliebs I’ll let dis turn to winegar, an’ not make any more.”

“That’s right, Aunt Linda.  I hope you’ll hold to it,” said Robert, encouragingly.

Very soon Aunt Linda had an excellent dinner prepared.  After it was over Robert went with Iola to C——­, where her friend, the bishop, was awaiting her return.  She told him the wonderful story of Robert’s finding his mother, and of her sweet, childlike faith.

The bishop, a kind, fatherly man, said, “Miss Iola, I hope that such happiness is in store for you.  My dear child, still continue to pray and trust.  I am old-fashioned enough to believe in prayer.  I knew an old lady living in Illinois, who was a slave.  Her son got a chance to come North and beg money to buy his mother.  The mother was badly treated, and made up her mind to run away.  But before she started she thought she would kneel down to pray.  And something, she said, reasoned within her, and whispered, ‘Stand still and see what I am going to do for you.’  So real was it to her that she unpacked her bundle and desisted from her flight.  Strange as it may appear to you, her son returned, bringing with him money enough to purchase her freedom, and she was redeemed from bondage.  Had she persisted in running away she might have been lost in the woods and have died, exhausted by starvation.  But she believed, she trusted, and was delivered.  Her son took her North, where she could find a resting place for the soles of her feet.”

That night Iola and the bishop left for the South.

CHAPTER XXI.

A HOME FOR MOTHER.

After Iola had left the settlement, accompanied by Robert as far as the town, it was a pleasant satisfaction for the two old friends to settle themselves down, and talk of times past, departed friends, and long-forgotten scenes.

“What,” said Mrs. Johnson, as we shall call Robert’s mother, “hab become ob Miss Nancy’s husband?  Is he still a libin’?”

“Oh, he drunk hisself to death,” responded Aunt Linda.

“He used ter be mighty handsome.”

“Yes, but drink war his ruination.”

“An’ how’s Miss Nancy?”

“Oh, she’s com’d down migh’ly.  She’s pore as a church mouse.  I thought ’twould com’d home ter her wen she sole yer ’way from yore chillen.  Dere’s nuffin goes ober de debil’s back dat don’t come under his belly.  Do yo ’member Miss Nancy’s fardder?”

“Ob course I does!”

“Well,” said Aunt Linda, “he war a nice ole gemmen.  Wen he died, I said de las’ gemmen’s dead, an’ dere’s noboddy ter step in his shoes.”