“Well, didn’t you have a good sermon?”

“It mought ‘a’ been a good sehmont, but dat ain’ whut I ax you.  I want to know whut de mattah wif Brothah Simon.”

“Why, he told me that the man he put over you was one of the most powerful kind, warranted to make you shout until the last bench was turned over.”

“Oh, some o’ dem, dey shouted enough, dey shouted dey fill.  But dat ain’ whut I’s drivin’ at yit.  Whut I wan’ ’o know, whut mek Brothah Simon do dat?”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Lize,” Marston began, but his wife cut him off.

“Now, George,” she said, “you shall not trifle with Eliza in that manner.”  Then turning to the old servant, she said:  “Eliza, it means nothing.  Do not trouble yourself about it.  You know Uncle Simon is old; he has been exhorting for you now for many years, and he needs a little rest these Sundays.  It is getting toward midsummer, and it is warm and wearing work to preach as Uncle Simon does.”

Lize stood still, with an incredulous and unsatisfied look on her face.  After a while she said, dubiously shaking her head: 

“Huh uh!  Miss M’ree, dat may ‘splain t’ings to you, but hit ain’ mek ’em light to me yit.”

“Now, Mrs. Marston”—­began her husband, chuckling.

“Hush, I tell you, George.  It’s really just as I tell you, Eliza, the old man is tired and needs rest!”

Again the old woman shook her head, “Huh uh,” she said, “ef you’d’ a’ seen him gwine lickety split outen de meetin’-house you wouldn’ a thought he was so tiahed.”

Marston laughed loud and long at this.  “Well, Mrs. Marston,” he bantered, “even Lize is showing a keener perception of the fitness of things than you.”

“There are some things I can afford to be excelled in by my husband and my servants.  For my part, I have no suspicion of Uncle Simon, and no concern about him either one way or the other.”

“‘Scuse me, Miss M’ree,” said Lize, “I didn’ mean no ha’m to you, but I ain’ a trustin’ ol’ Brothah Simon, I tell you.”

“I’m not blaming you, Eliza; you are sensible as far as you know.”

“Ahem,” said Mr. Marston.

Eliza went out mumbling to herself, and Mr. Marston confined his attentions to his dinner; he chuckled just once, but Mrs. Marston met his levity with something like a sniff.

On the first two Sundays that Uncle Simon was away from his congregation nothing was known about his whereabouts.  On the third Sunday he was reported to have been seen making his way toward the west plantation.  Now what did this old man want there?  The west plantation, so called, was a part of the Marston domain, but the land there was worked by a number of slaves which Mrs. Marston had brought with her from Louisiana, where she had given up her father’s gorgeous home on the Bayou Lafourche, together with her proud name of Marie St. Pierre for George Marston’s love.  There had been so many bickerings between