’Recolember, too, my brudders, dat our great Massa am rich, bery rich, and He kin do all he promise. He won’t say, w’en wese worked ober time to git some little ting to comfort de sick chile, ’I knows, Pomp, you’se done de work, and I did ’gree to gib you de pay; but de fact am, Pomp, de frost hab come so sudden dis yar, dat I’se loss de hull ob de sebenfh dippin’, and I’se pore, so pore, de chile must go widout dis time.’  No, no, brudders, de bressed Lord He neber talk so.  He neber break, ’case de sebenfh dip am shet off, or ’case de price of turpentime gwo down at de Norf.  He neber sell his niggers down Souf, ’case he lose his money on de hoss-race.  No, my chil’ren, our HEABENLY Massa am rich, RICH, I say.  He own all dis worle, and all de odor worles dat am shinin’ up dar in de sky.  He own dem all; but he tink more ob one ob you, more ob one ob you—­pore, ignorant brack folks dat you am—­dan ob all dem great worles!  Who wouldn’t belong, to sich a Massa as dat?  Who wouldn’t be his nigger—­not his slave—­He don’t hab no slaves—­but his chile; and ’ef his chile, den his heir, de heir ob God, and de joint heir wid Christ.’  O my chil’ren! tink of dat! de heir ob de Lord ob all de earth and all de sky!  What white man kin be more’n dat?

’Don’t none ob you say you’m too wicked to be His chile; ’ca’se you an’t.  He lubs de wicked ones de best, ’ca’se dey need his lub de most.  Yas, my brudders, eben de wickedest, ef dey’s only sorry, and turn roun’ and leab off dar bad ways, he lub de bery best ob all, ’ca’se he’m all lub and pity.

’Sam, har, my children, war wicked, but don’t we pity him; don’t we tink he had a hard time, and don’t we tink de bad oberseer, who’m layin’ dar in de house jess ready to gwo and answer for it—­don’t we tink he gabe Sam bery great probincation?’

‘Dat’s so,’ said a dozen of the auditors.

’Den don’t you ’spose dat de blessed Lord know all dat, and dat He pity Sam too?  If we pore sinners feel sorry for him, an’t de Lord’s heart bigger’n our’n, and an’t he more sorry for him?  Don’t you tink dat ef He lub and pity de bery worse whites, dat He lub and pity pore Sam, who warn’t so bery bad, arter all?  Don’t you think He’ll gib Sam a house?  P’r’aps ’twon’t be one ob de fine hous’n, but won’t it be a comfible house, dat hain’t no cracks, and one dat’ll keep out de wind and de rain?  And don’t you s’pose, my chil’ren, dat it’ll be big ’nuff for Jule, too—­dat pore, repentin’ chile, whose heart am clean broke, ’ca’se she hab broughten dis on Sam—­and won’t de Lord—­de good Lord—­de tender-hearted Lord—­won’t He touch Sam’s heart, and coax him to forgib Jule, and to take her inter his house up dar?  I knows he will, my chil’ren.  I knows—­’

Here the old negro paused abruptly; for there was a quick swaying in the crowd—­a hasty rush—­a wild cry—­and Sam’s wife burst into the open space around the preacher, and fell at the old man’s feet.  Throwing her arms wildly around him, she shrieked out: