At this combination of temptation and insult Uncle Billy’s eyes narrowed with contempt and loathing.  “Me?” he said, and a rigid arm pointed back at the house which had been for years his source of shelter and comfort.  “Me leave Miss Hallie now?  Right when she ain’t got nothin’?  Look heah, nigger; dog-gone yo’ skin, I got a great min’ for to mash yo’ mouf.  Yas, I is a slave.  I b’longs to Mars Cary—­an’ I b’longed to his pa befo’ him.  Dey feed me and gimme de bes’ dey got.  Dey take care of me when I’m sick—­an’ dey take care of me when I’m well—­an’ I gwine to stay right here.  But you?  You jes’ go on wid de Yankees, an’ black der boots.  Dey’ll free you,” and Uncle Billy’s voice rose in prophetic tones—­“an you’ll keep on blackin’ boots!  Go ’long now, you low-down, dollar-an’-a-quarter nigger!” as Jeems Henry backed away.  “Go long wid yo’ Yankee marsters—­and git yo’ freedom an’ a blackin’ brush.”

So engrossed were both the actors in this drama that they failed to hear the sound of footsteps on the veranda, and it was so that the mistress of the manor found the would-be runaway and the old slave, glaring into each other’s eyes and insulting one another volubly.

Mrs. Cary, with her workbasket on her arm, paused at the top of the steps and regarded the angry pair with well-bred surprise.

“Why, Uncle Billy,” she queried, “what is going on here?  What is the matter?”

“It’s Jeems Henry; dat’s what’s de matter,” said Uncle Billy, in defense of his agitation.  “He’s runnin’ ’way to de Yankees.”

Mrs. Cary stopped short for a moment and then came slowly down the steps.

“Oh, James,” she said, unbelievingly.  “Is this really true?”

Jeems Henry hung his head and dug at the gravel with his toe.

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Cary, and the word held a world of painful thought—­of self-accusation, of hopeless regret, of sorrow for one who could be so foolishly misguided.  “I’m sorry not only for ourselves but for you.  You know, I promised Mammy before she died that I would look after you—­always.”

Still Jeems Henry made no answer and old Uncle Billy saw fit to make a disclosure.

“He’s gwine up to Chickahominy.”  Then to Jeems Henry he added something in low tones which made the young negro’s eyes roll wildly with fear.  “Dey tells me dat der’s hants and ghoses over dar.  I hopes dey’ll git you.”

“Stop that!” commanded Mrs. Cary.  “You know very well, Uncle Billy, there are no such things as ghosts.”

“Nor’m I don’t, Miss Hallie,” responded Uncle Billy, sticking tenaciously to his point, because he could plainly see Jeems Henry wavering. “‘Twas jes las’ night I hear one—­moanin’ ‘roun’ de smoke house.  An’ ef I ain’t mighty fur wrong, she was smellin’ arfter Jeems Henry.”

At this wild fabrication, the reason for which she nevertheless appreciated, Mrs. Cary had hard work to hold back a smile, although she promptly reassured the terrified Jeems Henry.