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“I don’t believe I do,” he said kindly—”unless you will assist my memory.”

“Don’t you ‘member Cindy’s Mose, Mars’ Pendleton, what ‘migrated ‘mediately after de war?”

“Wait a moment,” said the Major, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. He loved to recall everything connected with those beloved days. “Cindy’s Mose,” he reflected. “You worked among the horses—breaking the colts. Yes, I remember now. After the surrender, you took the name of—don’t prompt me—Mitchell, and went to the West—to Nebraska.”

“Yassir, yassir,”—the old man’s face stretched with a delighted grin—”dat’s him, dat’s it. Newbraska. Dat’s me—Mose Mitchell. Old Uncle Mose Mitchell, dey calls me now. Old mars’, your pa, gimme a pah of dem mule colts when I lef’ fur to staht me goin’ with. You ‘member dem colts, Mars’ Pendleton?”

“I don’t seem to recall the colts,” said the Major. “You know. I was married the first year of the war and living at the old Follinsbee place. But sit down, sit down, Uncle Mose. I’m glad to see you. I hope you have prospered.”

Uncle Mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor beside it.

“Yessir; of late I done mouty famous. When I first got to Newbraska, dey folks come all roun’ me to see dem mule colts. Dey ain’t see no mules like dem in Newbraska. I sold dem mules for three hundred dollars. Yessir—three hundred.

“Den I open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and bought some lan’. Me and my old ‘oman done raised up seb’m chillun, and all doin’ well ‘cept two of ’em what died. Fo’ year ago a railroad come along and staht a town slam ag’inst my lan’, and, suh, Mars’ Pendleton, Uncle Mose am worth leb’m thousand dollars in money, property, and lan’.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said the Major heartily. “Glad to hear it.”

“And dat little baby of yo’n, Mars’ Pendleton—one what you name Miss Lyddy—I be bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody wouldn’t know her.”

The Major stepped to the door and called: “Lydie, dear, will you come?”

Miss Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in from her room.

“Dar, now! What’d I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growed up. You don’t ‘member Uncle Mose, child?”

“This is Aunt Cindy’s Mose, Lydia,” explained the Major. “He left
Sunnymead for the West when you were two years old.”

“Well,” said Miss Lydia, “I can hardly be expected to remember you, Uncle Mose, at that age. And, as you say, I’m ‘plum growed up,’ and was a blessed long time ago. But I’m glad to see you, even if I can’t remember you.”

And she was. And so was the Major. Something alive and tangible had come to link them with the happy past. The three sat and talked over the olden times, the Major and Uncle Mose correcting or prompting each other as they reviewed the plantation scenes and days.

The Major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home.

“Uncle Mose am a delicate,” he explained, “to de grand Baptis’ convention in dis city. I never preached none, but bein’ a residin’ elder in de church, and able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent me along.”

“And how did you know we were in Washington?” inquired Miss Lydia.

“Dey’s a cullud man works in de hotel whar I stops, what comes from Mobile. He told me he seen Mars’ Pendleton comin’ outen dish here house one mawnin’.

“What I come fur,” continued Uncle Mose, reaching into his pocket—”besides de sight of home folks—was to pay Mars’ Pendleton what I owes him.

“Yessir—three hundred dollars.” He handed the Major a roll of bills. “When I lef’ old mars’ says: ‘Take dem mule colts, Mose, and, if it be so you gits able, pay fur ’em.’ Yessir—dem was his words. De war had done lef’ old mars’ po’ hisself. Old mars’ bein’ long ago dead, de debt descends to Mars’ Pendleton. Three hundred dollars. Uncle Mose is plenty able to pay now. When dat railroad buy my lan’ I laid off to pay fur dem mules. Count de money, Mars’ Pendleton. Dat’s what I sold dem mules fur. Yessir.”