on the end that I kain't
remembah. An' he said, laughin'-like, sezee, 'well, Uncle Billy, you'd
nevah take that as meanin' Jintsey's boy, would you now? It's a mighty
fine soundin' title,' sezee. Gawge gave a little moanful sawt of smile,
same as to say, well, aftah all, it wasn't wuth what it cost him. An' it
wasn't! No, it wasn't," repeated Uncle Billy, solemnly shaking the ashes
from his pipe. "What's the good of a head full of book learnin' with a
poah puny body that kaint tote it around?"

Somehow, Uncle Billy's solemn declaration, "he have fought a good
fight," associated this colored preacher, in John Jay's simple little
mind, with soldiers and fierce battles and a great victory. He lay back
on his pillow, wishing they would go on talking about this man who had
suddenly become such a hero in his boyish eyes. But their talk gradually
drifted to the details of Mrs. Watson's last illness. He had heard them
so many times that he soon felt his eyelids slowly closing. Then he
dozed for a few minutes, awakening with a start. They had gotten as far
as the funeral now, and were discussing the sermon. They would soon be
commenting on the way that each member of the family "took her death."
That was so much more interesting, he thought he would just close his
eyes again for a moment, until they came to that.

Their voices murmured on in a pleasing flow; his head sunk lower on the
pillow, and his breathing was a little louder. Then his hand dropped
down at his side. He was sound asleep just when Aunt Susan was about to
begin one of her most thrilling ghost stories.

In the midst of an account of "a ha'nt that walked the graveyard every
thirteenth Friday in the year," John Jay turned over in his sleep with a
little snort. Aunt Susan nearly jumped out of her chair, and Uncle Billy
dropped his pipe. There was a moment of frightened silence till Mammy
said, "It must have been Bud, I reckon. John Jay is allus a-knockin' him
in his sleep an' makin' him holler out. Go on, sis' Susan."

The moon had travelled well across the sky when Mammy's guests said good
night. She lingered outside after they had gone, to look far down the
road, where a single point of light, shining through the trees, marked
the toll-gate. It would not be so lonely for Mars' Nat, now that George
had come home. She recalled the laughing face of the little black boy as
she had known it long ago, and tried to call up in her imagination a
picture of the man that