But all his days were not days devoted to men’s service, for there came a time when love claimed him for her own, when the clouds took on a new color, when the sough of the wind was music in his ears, and he saw heaven in Martha’s eyes.  It all came about in this way.

Gideon was young when he got religion and joined the church, and he grew up strong in the faith.  Almost by the time he had become a valuable house servant he had grown to be an invaluable servant of the Lord.  He had a good, clear voice that could lead a hymn out of all the labyrinthian wanderings of an ignorant congregation, even when he had to improvise both words and music; and he was a mighty man of prayer.  It was thus he met Martha.  Martha was brown and buxom and comely, and her rich contralto voice was loud and high on the sisters’ side in meeting time.  It was the voices that did it at first.  There was no hymn or “spiritual” that Gideon could start to which Martha could not sing an easy blending second, and never did she open a tune that Gideon did not swing into it with a wonderfully sweet, flowing, natural bass.  Often he did not know the piece, but that did not matter, he sang anyway.  Perhaps when they were out he would go to her and ask, “Sis’ Martha, what was that hymn you stahrted to-day?” and she would probably answer, “Oh, dat was jes’ one o’ my mammy’s ol’ songs.”

“Well, it sholy was mighty pretty.  Indeed it was.”

“Oh, thanky, Brothah Gidjon, thanky.”

Then a little later they began to walk back to the master’s house together, for Martha, too, was one of the favored ones, and served, not in the field, but in the big house.

The old women looked on and conversed in whispers about the pair, for they were wise, and what their old eyes saw, they saw.

“Oomph,” said Mam’ Henry, for she commented on everything, “dem too is jes’ natchelly singin’ demse’ves togeddah.”

“Dey’s lak de mo’nin’ stahs,” interjected Aunt Sophy.

“How ’bout dat?” sniffed the older woman, for she objected to any one’s alluding to subjects she did not understand.

“Why, Mam’ Henry, ain’ you nevah hyeahd tell o’ de mo’nin’ stahs whut sung deyse’ves togeddah?”

“No, I ain’t, an’ I been livin’ a mighty sight longah’n you, too.  I knows all ‘bout when de stahs fell, but dey ain’ nevah done no singin’ dat I knows ’bout.”

“Do heish, Mam’ Henry, you sho’ su’prises me.  W’y, dat ain’ happenin’s, dat’s Scripter.”

“Look hyeah, gal, don’t you tell me dat’s Scripter, an’ me been a-settin’ undah de Scripter fu’ nigh onto sixty yeah.”

“Well, Mam’ Henry, I may ‘a’ been mistook, but sho’ I took hit fu’ Scripter.  Mebbe de preachah I hyeahd was jes’ inlinin’.”

“Well, wheddah hit’s Scripter er not, dey’s one t’ing su’tain, I tell you,—­dem two is singin’ deyse’ves togeddah.”

“Hit’s a fac’, an’ I believe it.”

“An’ it’s a mighty good thing, too.  Brothah Gidjon is de nicest house dahky dat I ever hyeahd tell on.  Dey jes’ de same diffunce ’twixt him an’ de othah house-boys as dey is ‘tween real quality an’ strainers—­he got mannahs, but he ain’t got aihs.”