Both of them obeyed, and then returned and stood silent; they could not tell him no.

Presently the woman said, “Don’ you warn put you’ shut on?”

“What did you say my name was?” he said.

“Ole ’Str—­” She paused at the look of pain on his face, shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and relapsed into embarrassed silence.

“Nem min’! dee’ll know it—­dee’ll know me ’dout any name, oon dee?” He appealed wistfully to them both.  The woman for answer unfolded the shirt.  He moved feebly, as if in assent.

“I so tired waitin’,” he whispered; “done ‘mos gin out, an’ he oon come; but I thought I heah little Eph to-day?” There was a faint inquiry in his voice.

“Yes, he wuz heah.”

“Wuz he?” The languid form became instantly alert, the tired face took on a look of eager expectancy.  “Heah, gi’m’y shut quick.  I knowed it.  Wait; go over dyah, son, and git me dat money.  He’ll be heah torectly.”  They thought his mind wandered, and merely followed the direction of his eyes with theirs.  “Go over dyah quick—­don’t you heah me?”

And to humor him Ephraim went over to the corner indicated.

“Retch up dyah, an’ run you’ hand in onder de second jice.  It’s all in dyah,” he said to the woman—­“twelve hunderd dollars—­dat’s what dee went for.  I wucked night an’ day forty year to save dat money for marster; you know dee teck all he land an’ all he niggers an’ tu’n him out in de old fiel’?  I put ’tin dyah ‘ginst he come.  You ain’ know he comin’ dis evenin’, is you?  Heah, help me on wid dat shut, gal—­I stan’in’ heah talkin’ an’ maybe ole marster waitin’.  Push de do’ open so you kin see.  Forty year ago,” he murmured, as Polly jammed the door back and returned to his side—­“forty year ago dee come an’ leveled on me:  marster sutny did cry.  ‘Nem min’,’ he said, ‘I comin’ right down in de summer to buy you back an’ bring you home.’  He’s comin’, too—­nuver tol’ me a lie in he life—­comin’ dis evenin.’  Make ’aste.”  This in tremulous eagerness to the woman, who had involuntarily caught the feeling, and was now with eager and ineffectual haste trying to button his shirt.

An exclamation from her husband caused her to turn around, as he stepped into the light and held up an old sock filled with something.

“Heah, hoi you’ apron,” said the old man to Polly, who gathered up the lower corners of her apron and stood nearer the bed.

“Po’ it in dyah.”  This to Ephraim, who mechanically obeyed.  He pulled off the string, and poured into his wife’s lap the heap of glittering coin—­gold and silver more than their eyes had ever seen before.

“Hit’s all dyah,” said the old man, confidentially, as if he were rendering an account.  “I been savin’ it ever sence dee took me ’way.  I so busy savin’ it I ain’ had time to eat, but I ain’ hongry now; have plenty when I git home.”  He sank back exhausted.  “Oon marster be glad to see me?” he asked presently in pathetic simplicity.  “You know we grewed up to-gerr?  I been waitin’ so long I ’feared dee ‘mos’ done forgit me.  You reckon dee is?” he asked the woman, appealingly.