we sat in awed silence
on his knee, and watched the supper fire die out.

And not to us only, was Uncle Scipio the stay and comfort in those
dark days, but to our mother also. He had been the guardian,
playmate, and tyrant of two eager boys, my brothers, through infancy,
and through the sunny college days, when, with the school boy's
profanation of the classics, they had stumbled on the story of his
great prototype, and laughingly called him "Scipio Africanus." Through
tear-dimmed spectacles he watched them march away, two boy soldiers,
with no premonition of misfortune on their faces, and minds full of
great Shakespearian thoughts of "all the pomp and circumstance of
glorious war." And last of all, he stood by my father's stirrup when
he mounted to ride on his last journey, and took his final orders
concerning us.

About this time, I remember, there was quite a disturbance among the
negroes; some were for following in the wake of the first Union troops
that should pass, as the only sure means of gaining their promised
freedom. These, we knew, had been trying to persuade Uncle Scipio to
join them. To us this was a thing too preposterous to think of; but I
think that mother and grandmother really had some doubts on the
subject. So one day the latter asked him what he should do if the
opportunity should be offered him to go. I was balancing on the
rockers of her chair at the time, and I shall never forget the look he
gave her in reply.

"I can't go, ole missus," he said, shaking his gray head, as he rose
from emptying an armful of lightwood knots into the wood box, and
dusted the splinters from his sleeve. "I can't go, nohow, and leave
young missus and de chillun in dese yere times. Mars Ben he done die,
and lef' me to take care o' dese yere darlins o' hisen, and no kind o'
proclamation, dis side de Jordan o' def, gwine to free ole Scipio from
dat charge."

"But don't you want to be free if the rest are?"

"Yes, ole missus, but ef de Lord mean to bring freedom to dis ole
nigger, he kin fin' him here. Ef He mean to fetch our people dry shod
tru dis Red Sea o' blood, outen de house o' bondage, den when I hears
de soun' o' dem timbrels, and de dancin', an' de shoutin', I praise
Him too; but I don't tink He gwine to be angry kase one ole man love
his home so much 'til he got to stay behind and weep wid dem in de
house where de eldest born am slain."

And faithfully he kept his promise to the slain. But see! I began t