In the road they came upon Uncle Ish, who was hobbling slowly towards them.  He was wrinkled with age and bent with rheumatism, and his voice sounded cracked and querulous.

“Is de Lawd done sont dem vittles?” he demanded suspiciously.  “Ef He ain’, I dunno how I’se gwine ter git mo’n a’er ash cake fur supper.  ‘Pears like He’s gittin’ monst’ous ondependible dese yer las’ days.  I ain’ lay eyes on er dish er kebbage sence I lef dat ar patch on Hick’ry Hill, en all de blackeye peas I’se done seen is what I raise right dar behint dat do’.  Es long es Gord A’mighty ondertecks ter feed you, He mought es well feed you ter yo’ tase.”

“There are some eggs in the cupboard,” said Eugenia seriously.  “You must cook some for supper.”

Uncle Ish grunted.

“En egg’s er wishwashy creeter es ain’ got ernuff tase er its own ter stan’ alont widout salt,” he remarked contemptuously; after which he grew hospitable.

“Ain’ you gwine ter step in es you’se passin’?” he inquired.

Eugenia shook her head.

“Not to-day, Uncle Ish,” she responded cheerfully.  “I know you’re tired—­and how is your rheumatism?”

“Wuss en wuss,” responded the old negro gloomily.  “I’se done cyar’ed one er dese yer I’sh taters in my pocket twell hit sprouted, en de rhematiks ain’ never knowed ’twuz dar.  Hit’s wuss en wuss.”

As they passed on, he hobbled painfully up the rocky path, leaning heavily upon his stick and grunting audibly at each rheumatic twinge.

Nicholas and Eugenia followed the highway and turned into the avenue of cedars.  When the house was in sight, he stopped and held out his hand.

“May I see you sometimes?” he asked diffidently.

She spoke eagerly.

“Oh, do come to see us,” she said.  “Papa would enjoy talking about Judge Bassett.  He half worships him.”

“So do I.”

She nodded sympathetically.

“I know—­I know.  He is splendid!  And you are doing well, aren’t you?”

“I have work to do, thank God, and I do it.  I can’t say how.”

“What does Judge Bassett say?”

He laughed boyishly.  “He says silence.”

She was puzzled.

“I don’t understand—­but I must go—­I really must.  It is quite dark.”

And she passed from him into the box-bordered walk.  He watched her tall figure until it ascended the stone steps and paused upon the porch, whence came the sound of voices.  Through the wide open doors he could see the swinging lamp in the centre of the great hall and the broad stairway leading to the floor above.  For a moment he stood motionless; then, turning back into the avenue, he retraced his steps to his father’s house.

In the kitchen, where the table was laid for supper, his half-sister, Nannie, was sewing on her wedding clothes.  She was to be married in the fulness of the winter to young Nat Turner—­one of the Turners of Nicholas’s boyhood.  By the light of the kerosene lamp she looked wonderfully fair and fresh, her auburn curls hanging heavily against her cheek as she bent over the cambric in her lap.