oung Joe then--declined to
accept of any liberty, or to follow any occupation that might take him
away from his master's oldest son, Ralph Gordon, our father. The
negro's mission in life, as he understood it, was simply to keep an
eye on the young man, for the young man's good. The flight of years
did not lessen his sense of responsibility any more than it did his
devotion, which was immeasurable. But, curiously enough, he seemed to
prefer, on the whole, not to reside with the object of his adoration.
It was enough for him if he could but hover around in father's
vicinity, and this he did with such tireless persistency that in all
the changes, the shifting scenes of his Western life, the one thing
that father owned to being absolutely sure of was, that no matter
where he went, or how quietly, the place that knew him presently
became familiar also with the white wool and shambling figure of old
Joe.

"I 'clar ter goodness!" groaned Joe, reaching us at last, and hobbling
on beside us, "I didn' 'low fur t' wuck ter-day; my rheumatiz is tuck
dat bad!"

"Don't work, then, Joe; the mine is as wet as a sponge. You'll be the
worse to-morrow for going into it," remonstrated father, kindly.

"No; I reckons I's wuck ef yo' does; hit ain' out o' place, noway,
fur me ter crope inter a hole like dat; but w'at fur yo' keep w'alin'
at wuck in de mine? 'Pears like a gen'leman might fin' more fittin'
kine o' wuck dan dat."

"The kind of work neither makes nor unmakes one, Joe," returned
father, good-humoredly; "but I'm not going to do this sort of work
much longer. I'm calculating on opening up the ranch in fine shape,
with your help, when I get the title to it."

"W'en yo' 'low fur ter git dat titull?"

"In about three months. You'll have to come and live with us then,
Joe, so as to be on hand to help us."

"Yes," the old man assented, with unexpected readiness, "I 'spect I
shall. I'se mighty good farmer, yo' knows, Mas'r Ralph. Hit goin' take
nigh a week ter tell all dat I knows erbout raisin' ob watermillions
an' goobers. Yo' 'low dat goobers grow in dish yer kentry, Mas'r
Ralph?"

"Yes, indeed. Why not?" father returned, cheerily, evidently glad of
old Joe's implied willingness to take up his abode with us.

We presently entered the shaft-house. Rutledge, the mine
superintendent, was standing by the shaft, and the hoisting-cage, with
its first load of ore from the dump below, was moving slowly upward.

"You're late," wa