It was one of John Jay’s peculiarities that in going on an errand he always chose the most roundabout route.  Now, instead of following the narrow footpath that made a short cut through the cool beech woods, he went half a mile out of his way, along the sunny turnpike.

[Illustration:  Mars’ Nat]

Mars’ Nat stood outside his kitchen window, with his hands in his pockets, giving orders to the colored boy within, who did his bachelor housekeeping.  Usually he had a joking word for old Sheba’s grandson, but this morning he took no notice of the little fellow loitering by with such an appealing look on his face.  John Jay had come past the toll-gate with a hope of seeing the “Rev’und Gawge,” as he called him.  It had been three weeks since the man had come home, and in that time John Jay’s interest in him had grown into a sort of hero-worship.  There had been a great deal of talk about him among the ignorant colored people.  Wonderful stories were afloat of his experiences at the North, of his power as a preacher, and of the plans he had made to help his people.  He would have been surprised could he have known how he was discussed, or how the stories grew as they travelled.

Those who had any claim whatever to a former acquaintance stopped at the cottage to see him.  Their interest and the little offerings of fruit or flowers, which they often made their excuse for coming, touched him greatly.  To all who came he spoke freely of his hopes.  Realizing that he might have but the one opportunity, he talked as only a man can talk who feels the responsibilities of a lifetime crowded into one short hour.  One by one they came and listened, and went away with a new expression on their faces, and a new ambition in their hearts.

To all these people he was “Brothah Chadwick;” to the three old slaves bound to him by ties almost as strong as those of kinship, he could never be other than Jintsey’s boy; but to two persons he was known as the “Rev’und Gawge.”  Mars’ Nat took to calling him that in a joking way, but John Jay gave him the title almost with awe.  It seemed to set him apart in the child’s reverent affection as one who had come up out of great tribulation to highest honor.  Old Sheba had not cuffed her grandson to church every week in vain.  He had heard a great deal about white robes and palms of victory and “him that overcometh.”  By some twist of his simple little brain the term Reverend had come to mean all that to him, and much more.  It meant not only some one set apart in a priestly way, but some one who was just slipping down into the mysterious valley of the shadow, with the shining of the New Jerusalem upon his face.