The pan of scraps quite equalled that of the old man's memory, every
familiar fragment evoking a reminiscence.

"You is sho' struck quality white folks dis time, Juke," he said,
finally, as he pushed back the pan--Duke had long ago finished--"but
dis here tukkey-stuffin'--I don't say 'tain' good, but _hit don't quite
come up ter de mark o' ole miss's puckon stuffin'_!"

Duke was nodding in his chair, when presently the old man, turning to go
to bed, spied the unopened parcel, which, in his excitement, Duke had
forgotten. Placing it upon the table before him, Mose began to open it.
It was a package worth getting--just such a generous Christmas bundle as
he had described to Duke this afternoon. Perhaps it was some vague
impression of this sort that made his old fingers tremble as he untied
the strings, peeping or sniffing into the little parcels of tea and
coffee and flour. Suddenly something happened. Out of a little sack of
buckwheat, accidentally upset, rolled a ten-cent piece. The old man
threw up his arms, fell forward over the table, and in a moment was
sobbing aloud.

It was some time before he could make Duke comprehend the situation, but
presently, pointing to the coin lying before him, he cried: "Look, boy,
look! Wharbouts is you got dat bundle? Open yo' mouf, boy! Look at de
money in de buckwheat-bag! Oh, my ole mistuss! Nobody but you is tied up
dat bundle! Praise Gord, I say!"

There was no sleep for either Mose or Duke now; and, late as it was,
they soon started out, the old man steadying himself on Duke's shoulder,
to find their people.

* * * * *

It was hard for the little boy to believe, even after they had hugged
all 'round and laughed and cried, that the stylish black gentleman who
answered the door-bell, silver tray in hand, was his own father! He had
often longed for a regular blue-shirted plantation "daddy," but never,
in his most ambitious moments, had he aspired to filial relations with
so august a personage as this!

But while Duke was swelling up, rolling his eyes, and wondering, Mose
stood in the centre of a crowd of his white people, while a gray-haired
old lady, holding his trembling hand in both of hers, was saying, as the
tears trickled down her cheeks:

"But why didn't you get some one to write to us for you, Moses?"

Then Mose, sniffling still, told of his long illness in the hospital,
and of his having afterwards met a man from the coast who tol