“Certainly, Daddy, certainly:  you shall go.  Daddy knows how to get alongside of Aunt Rachel when he gets down on the plantation.  He knows where to get a good cup of coffee and a waff.”  And she pats the old negro on the head as he clambers up on the box.  “No, him aint dat.  Daddy want t’ go wid missus-ya’h, ya! dat him, tis.  Missus want somebody down da’h what spry, so’e take care on ’em round de old plantation.  Takes my missus to know what nigger is,” says Daddy, taking off his cap, and bowing missus into the carriage.

“Not one word for mas’r, eh, Daddy?” rejoins the deacon, looking playfully at Daddy.  “Why, Boss, you aint nofin whin missus about,” returns Daddy, tauntingly, as he buttons his grey coat, and tells Bradshaw to “go ahead!” Away they go, galloping over the plain, through the swamp, for the plantation,—­that model experiment doubted by so many.  Major Sprag, the politician, and Judge Snow, the statesman, had declared publicly it never would do any good.  With them it was not practical,—­it gave negroes too much liberty; and they declared the system must be kept within the narrowest sphere of law, or it would be destroyed for ever.

Onward the carriage bounded, and long before it reached the plantation gate was espied by the negroes, who came sallying forth from their white cabins, crying out at the top of their voices-"Missus comin’!  Missus comin!  Da’h missus-dat she!  I know’d missus wa’ comin’ t’ day!” and the music of their voices re-echoed through the arbour of oaks that lined the road.  Their tongues seemed to have taken new impulse for the occasion.  The dogs, at full run, came barking to the gate; old daddies and mammas, with faces “all over smiles,” followed in the train.  And they were dressed so tidily, looked so cheerful, and gave such expressions of their exuberant feelings, that Mr. Scranton seemed quite at a loss how to account for it.  He had never before witnessed such a mingling of fondness for owners,—­the welcome sounds of “God bless good missus!” They were at variance with the misanthropic ideas he had imbibed at the north.  And then there was a regular retinue of the “small-fry property” bringing up the rear, with curious faces, and making the jargon more confounding with the music of their voices.  They toddled, screamed, and shouted, clustered around the gate, and before Daddy had time to dismount, had it wide open, and were contending for the palm of shaking missus by the hand “fust.”

The carriage drives to the plantation house, followed by the train of moving darkness, flocking around it like as many devotees before an object of superstitious worship.  Mas’r is only a secondary consideration, Missus is the angel of their thoughts; her kindness and perseverance in their behalf has softened their feelings—­stimulated their energy.  How touching is the fondness and tenderness of these degraded mortals!  They love their benefactor.  And, too, there is a lesson in it worthy the statesman’s