“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 though 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.

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 humour 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 known 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’