George closed the book, and leaning wearily back in the chair, drew his hand over his eyes.  “I want you to promise me one thing, John Jay,” he said.  “That when I am gone you will think of what I am telling you now, and when the colored people all gather around to see this tired body of mine laid aside, you’ll remember Dr. Leonard’s coat, and you’ll say, ’George has left his behind too.  He isn’t here, but he’s just on the other side of the toll-gate.’  Will you do that, John Jay?”

There was a frightened look in the boy’s eyes.  He had no words wherewith to answer him, but he nodded an assent as he went on nervously tossing the acorns from one hand to another.

There was a long silence, and when he looked up inquiringly, George had put his thin hands over his face to hide the tears that were slowly trickling down.

“What’s the mattah?” he asked anxiously.  “Shall I call Mars’ Nat?”

“No,” answered the man, steadying his voice.  “I was only thinking that I had expected to go through the gate, when my turn came, with my arms piled full of sheaves,—­but I’ve come to the end too soon.  It seems so hard to come down to death empty-handed, when I have longed all these years to do so much for my people.  Oh, my poor people!” he cried out desperately; “so helpless and so needy, and my life that was to have been given to them going out in vain! utterly in vain!”

It was not the first time that John Jay had heard that cry.  In these weeks of constant companionship George had talked so much of his hopes and plans, that a faint spark of that same ambition had begun to smoulder slowly in the boy’s ignorant little heart.  Six months ago he could have had no understanding of such a grief as now made George’s voice to tremble; but love had opened his eyes to many things, and made his sympathies keen.  He drew nearer, saying almost in a whisper:  “But Uncle Billy says you fought a good fight while you was gettin’ ready to help us cul’ud folks, an’ if you got so knocked up you can’t do nothin’ moah, maybe ‘twon’t be expected as you should have yo’ hands full when you go through the gates.  You’ve got yo’ scars to show for what you’ve done.”

George lifted up his head.  There was an eager light in his eyes, not so much because of the comfort that had come from such an unexpected quarter, as because of a new hope that the words suggested.  He lifted the boy’s chin with a trembling hand, and looked wistfully into his eyes.

“You could do it, couldn’t you?” he asked.  “All that I must leave undone?  The struggle would not be so great for you.  There are schools near at hand now.  You would not have the fearful odds to contend with that I had. Will you take up my battle?  Shall I leave you my sword, John Jay?  Oh, you do understand me, don’t you?” he cried, imploringly.

“Yes, I understand,” answered the boy.  Then, as if George had really placed an epaulet upon his shoulder, as if he had really given him a sword, he drew a long breath and said with all the solemnity of a promise:  “Some day Uncle Billy shall say that about me, ’He have fought a good fight,—­he have finished his co’se.’”