shed,
on which the 'tea things' were still standing, occupied the centre of
the apartment.

Through an open door, at the right of the bureau, I caught a glimpse of
the dormitory of the aged Africaness. As on the exterior of the building
a brief epitome of Joe's history was written, so in that room a portion
of his character was traced. Its comfortable and almost elegant
furnishings told, plainer than any words, that he was a devoted and
affectionate son. With its rich Brussels carpet, red window hangings,
cosy lounge, neat centre table, and small black-walnut bureau, it might
have been mistaken for the private apartment of a white lady of some
pretensions.

It was a little after nightfall when I entered the cabin, but a bright
fire, blazing on the hearth, gave me a full view of its occupants. Aggy,
a tidily clad, middle-aged yellow woman, was clearing away the supper
table, and Joe's mother was smoking a pipe in a large arm chair, in the
chimney corner.

The old negress wore a black levantine gown, open in front, and gathered
about the waist by a silken cord; a red and yellow turban, from
underneath which escaped a few frosted locks, and a white cambric
neckerchief that fell carelessly over her shoulders, and almost hid her
withered, scrawny neck. She was upward of seventy, but so infirm that
she appeared nearly a hundred. One of her lean, skinny arms, escaping
from the loose sleeve of her dress, rested on her knee; and her bowed,
bony frame leaned against the arm of her chair, as if incapable of
sitting upright. Her features, with the exception of her nose, which
curved slightly upward, were thin and regular; and her eyes were large,
deep, and densely black, and seemed turned inward, as if gazing with a
half-wondering stare at the strange mechanism which held together her
queer frame-work of bones and gutta percha.

She was the old woman who had greeted Preston so affectionately on our
arrival.

Turning to her as he tendered me a chair, Joe said:

'Mudder, dis am Mr. Kirke.'

Making a feeble effort to rise, and reaching out her trembling hand she
exclaimed, in a voice just above a whisper:

'You'm welcome yere, right welcome, sar.'

'Thank you, aunty. Pray keep your seat; don't rise on my account.'

'Tank _you_, massa Kirke, fur comin' yere. It'm bery good ob you. Ole
missy lub you, sar; you'm so good ter massa Robert. He'm my own chile,
sar!'

This was undoubtedly a figure of speech, for the old woman's