“You shall stay, then; for I would far rather have you than my lazy Jack.  But are you well and strong enough?”

“I guess I’ll do, Ma’am.”

He spoke with a passive sort of acquiescence,—­as if it did not much matter, if he were not able, and no one would particularly rejoice, if he were.

“Yes, I think you will.  By what name shall I call you?”

“Bob, Ma’am.”

Every woman has her pet whim; one of mine was to teach the men self-respect by treating them respectfully.  Tom, Dick, and Harry would pass, when lads rejoiced in those familiar abbreviations; but to address men often old enough to be my father in that style did not suit my old-fashioned ideas of propriety.  This “Bob” would never do; I should have found it as easy to call the chaplain “Gus” as my tragical-looking contraband by a title so strongly associated with the tail of a kite.

“What is your other name?” I asked.  “I like to call my attendants by their last names rather than by their first.”

“I’ve got no other, Ma’am; we have our masters’ names, or do without.  Mine’s dead, and I won’t have anything of his about me.”

“Well, I’ll call you Robert, then, and you may fill this pitcher for me, if you will be so kind.”

He went; but, through all the tame obedience years of servitude had taught him, I could see that the proud spirit his father gave him was not yet subdued, for the look and gesture with which he repudiated his master’s name were a more effective declaration of independence than any Fourth-of-July orator could have prepared.

We spent a curious week together.  Robert seldom left his room, except upon my errands; and I was a prisoner all day, often all night, by the bedside of the Rebel.  The fever burned itself rapidly away, for there seemed little vitality to feed it in the feeble frame of this old young man, whose life had been none of the most righteous, judging from the revelations made by his unconscious lips; since more than once Robert authoritatively silenced him, when my gentler hushings were of no avail, and blasphemous wanderings or ribald camp-songs made my cheeks burn and Robert’s face assume an aspect of disgust.  The captain was a gentleman in the world’s eye, but the contraband was the gentleman in mine;—­I was a fanatic, and that accounts for such depravity of taste, I hope.  I never asked Robert of himself, feeling that somewhere there was a spot still too sore to bear the lightest touch; but, from his language, manner, and intelligence, I inferred that his color had procured for him the few advantages within the reach of a quick-witted, kindly treated slave.  Silent, grave, and thoughtful, but most serviceable, was my contraband; glad of the books I brought him, faithful in the performance of the duties I assigned to him, grateful for the friendliness I could not but feel and show toward him.  Often I longed to ask what purpose was so visibly altering his aspect with such daily deepening gloom.  But I never dared, and no one else had either time or desire to pry into the past of this specimen of one branch of the chivalrous “F.F.Vs.”