ster did not hear the answer, which was in a low voice and came,
he conjectured, from Aunt "Ca'line"; but the gruff voice subsided, and
there was the sound of footsteps going out of the room. A tap came on
the preacher's door, and he opened it to the old woman. She smiled
reassuringly.

"Dat' uz my ol' man," she said. "I sont him out to git some wood, so's
I'd have time to post you. Don't you mind him; he's lots mo' ba'k dan
bite. He's one o' dese little yaller men, an' you know dey kin be
powahful contra'y when dey sets dey hai'd to it. But jes' you treat him
nice an' don't let on, an' I'll be boun' you'll bring him erroun' in
little er no time."

The Rev. Mr. Dokesbury received this advice with some misgiving. Albeit
he had assumed his pleasantest manner when, after his return to the
living-room, the little "yaller" man came through the door with his
bundle of wood.

He responded cordially to Aunt Caroline's, "Dis is my husband, Brothah
Dokesbury," and heartily shook his host's reluctant hand.

"I hope I find you well, Brother Gray," he said.

"Moder't, jes' moder't," was the answer.

"Come to suppah now, bofe o' you," said the old lady, and they all sat
down to the evening meal of crisp bacon, well-fried potatoes, egg-pone,
and coffee.

The young man did his best to be agreeable, but it was rather
discouraging to receive only gruff monosyllabic rejoinders to his most
interesting observations. But the cheery old wife came bravely to the
rescue, and the minister was continually floated into safety on the flow
of her conversation. Now and then, as he talked, he could catch a
stealthy upflashing of Stephen Gray's eye, as suddenly lowered again,
that told him that the old man was listening. But as an indication that
they would get on together, the supper, taken as a whole, was not a
success. The evening that followed proved hardly more fortunate. About
the only remarks that could be elicited from the "little yaller man"
were a reluctant "oomph" or "oomph-uh."

It was just before going to bed that, after a period of reflection, Aunt
Caroline began slowly: "We got a son"--her husband immediately bristled
up and his eyes flashed, but the old woman went on; "he named 'Lias, an'
we thinks a heap o' 'Lias, we does; but--" the old man had subsided, but
he bristled up again at the word--"he ain't jes' whut we want him to
be." Her husband opened his mouth as if to speak in defense of his son,
but was silent in satisfacti