ten made their excuse for coming, touched him
greatly. To all who came he spoke freely of his hopes. Realizing that he
might have but the one opportunity, he talked as only a man can talk who
feels the responsibilities of a lifetime crowded into one short hour.
One by one they came and listened, and went away with a new expression
on their faces, and a new ambition in their hearts.

To all these people he was "Brothah Chadwick;" to the three old slaves
bound to him by ties almost as strong as those of kinship, he could
never be other than Jintsey's boy; but to two persons he was known as
the "Rev'und Gawge." Mars' Nat took to calling him that in a joking
way, but John Jay gave him the title almost with awe. It seemed to set
him apart in the child's reverent affection as one who had come up out
of great tribulation to highest honor. Old Sheba had not cuffed her
grandson to church every week in vain. He had heard a great deal about
white robes and palms of victory and "him that overcometh." By some
twist of his simple little brain the term Reverend had come to mean all
that to him, and much more. It meant not only some one set apart in a
priestly way, but some one who was just slipping down into the
mysterious valley of the shadow, with the shining of the New Jerusalem
upon his face.

As long as the cottage was in sight John Jay kept rolling his eyes
backward as he trudged along in the dust; but Mars' Nat was the only one
in view. Twice he stumbled and almost spilled the eggs. A little farther
along he concluded that he was tired enough to rest a while. So he sat
down on a log in a shady fence corner, and took a green apple from his
pocket. He rolled it around in his hands and over his face, enjoying its
tempting odor before he stuck his little white teeth into it. The first
bite was so sour that it drew his face all up into a pucker and made
his eyes water. He raised his hand to throw it away, but paused with his
arm in the air to listen. Somebody was playing on the organ in the
church a few rods up the hill.

It was a quaint little stone church, all overgrown with ivy, that the
Chadwicks had built generations ago. The high arched door was never
opened of late years, except at long intervals, when some one came out
from the city to hold services. But the side door was certainly ajar
now, for the saddest music that John Jay had ever heard in all his life
came trembling out on the warm summer air.

Forgetting all about