“Whar he got any home to go to sep heaven?” said Ephraim.

“What was you mammy name, Ephum?”

“Mymy,” said he, simply.

They were at the cabin now, and a brief pause of doubt ensued.  It was perfectly dark inside the door, and there was not a sound.  The bench where they had heretofore held their only communication with their strange neighbor was lying on its side in the weeds which grew up to the very walls of the ruinous cabin, and a lizard suddenly ran over it, and with a little rustle disappeared under the rotting ground-sill.  To the woman it was an ill omen.  She glanced furtively behind her, and moved nearer her husband’s side.  She noticed that the cloud above the pines was getting a faint yellow tinge on its lower border, while it was very black above them.  It filled her with dread, and she was about to call her husband’s notice to it, when a voice within arrested their attention.  It was very low, and they both listened in awed silence, watching the door meanwhile as if they expected to see something supernatural spring from it.

“Nem min’—­jes wait—­’tain so long now—­he’ll be heah torectly,” said the voice.  “Dat’s what he say—­gwine come an’ buy me back—­den we gwine home.”

In their endeavor to catch the words they moved nearer, and made a slight noise.  Suddenly the low, earnest tone changed to one full of eagerness.

“Who dat?” was called in sharp inquiry.

“‘Tain’ nobody but me an’ Polly, Ole ’Stracted,” said Ephraim, pushing the door slightly wider open and stepping in.  They had an indistinct idea that the poor deluded creature had fancied them his longed-for loved ones, yet it was a relief to see him bodily.

“Who you say you is?” inquired the old man, feebly.

“Me an’ Polly.”

“I done bring you shut home,” said the woman, as if supplementing her husband’s reply.  “Hit all bran’ clean, an’ I done patch it.”

“Oh, I thought—­” said the voice, sadly.

They knew what he thought.  Their eyes were now accustomed to the darkness, and they saw that the only article of furniture which the room contained was the wretched bed or bench on which the old man was stretched.  The light sifting through the chinks in the roof enabled them to see his face, and that it had changed much in the last twenty-four hours, and an instinct told them that he was near the end of his long waiting.

“How is you, Ole ’Stracted?” asked the woman.

“Dat ain’ my name,” answered the old man, promptly.  It was the first time he had ever disowned the name.

“Well, how is you, Ole—­What I gwine to call you?” asked she, with feeble finesse.

“I don’ know—­he kin tell you.”

“Who?”

“Who?  Marster.  He know it.  Ole ‘Stracted ain’ know it; but dat ain’ nuttin. He know it—­got it set down in de book.  I jes waitin’ for ’em now.”

A hush fell on the little audience—­they were in full sympathy with him, and, knowing no way of expressing it, kept silence.  Only the breathing of the old man was audible in the room.  He was evidently nearing the end.  “I mighty tired of waitin’,” he said, pathetically.  “Look out dyah and see ef you see anybody,” he added suddenly.