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“Father opened upon Aleck right away, just as I knew he would, without giving him a chance to speak. He upbraided him for going into the Army, told him to take his money back, and showed him the door. The old gentleman could be pretty savage when he wanted to, and he didn’t spare Aleck a bit. Aleck never said a word–just listened to my father’s abuse of him–his hands folded over his cap, his eyes on the two bills lying on the table where my father had thrown them. Then he said, slowly:

“‘Marse Henry, I done hearn ye every word. You don’t want me here no mo’, an’ I’m gwine away. I ain’t a-fightin’ agin you an’ Sammy an’ neber will–it’s ’cause I couldn’t help it dat I’m wearin’ dese clo’es. As to dis money dat you won’t let Sammy take, it’s mine to gib ’cause I saved it up. I gin it to Sammy ’cause I fotched him up an’ ’cause he’s as much mine as he is your’n. He’ll tell ye so same’s me. If you say I got to take dat money back I got to do it ’cause I ain’t neber dis’beyed ye an’ I ain’t gwine to begin now. But I don’t want yer ter say it, Marse Henry–I don’t want yer to say it. You is my marster I know, but Sammy is my chile. An’ anudder thing, dey ain’t gwine to let him stay in dis town more’n a day. I found dat out yisterday when I heared he’d come. Dar ain’t no money whar he’s gwine, an’ dis money ain’t nothin’ to me ’cause I kin git mo’ an’ maybe Sammy can’t. Please, Marse Henry, let Sammy keep dis money. Dere didn’t useter be no diff’ence ‘tween us, and dere oughtn’t to be none now.’

“My father didn’t speak again–he hadn’t the heart, and Aleck went out, leaving the money on the table.”

Again my companion stopped and fumbled over the matches in his safe, striking one or two nervously and relighting his cigar. It was astonishing how often it went out. I sat with my eyes riveted on his face. I could see now the lines of tenderness about his mouth and I caught certain cadences in his voice which revealed to me but too clearly why the negro loved him and why he must always be only a boy to the old slave. The cigar a-light, he went on:

“When the war closed I came home and began to pick up my life again. Aleck had gone to Wisconsin and was living in the same town as young Cruger, one of my father’s law-students. When my father died, I telegraphed Cruger, inviting him to serve as one of the pall-bearers, and asked him to find Aleck and tell him. I knew he would be hurt if I didn’t let him know.

“At two o’clock that night my niece, who was with my mother, rapped at my door. I was sitting up with my father’s body and would go down every hour to see that everything was all right.

“‘There’s a man trying to get in at the front door,’ she said. I got up at once and went downstairs. I could see the outlines of a man’s figure moving in the darkness, but I could not distinguish the features.

“‘Who is it?’ I asked, throwing open the door and peering out.

“‘It’s me, Sammy–it’s Aleck. Take me to my ole marster.’

“He came in and stood where the light fell full upon him. I hardly knew him, he was so changed–much older and bent, and his clothes hung on him in rags.

“I pointed to the parlor-door, and the old man went on tip-toe into the room and stood looking at my father’s dead face for a long time–the body lay on a cot. Then he placed his hat on the floor and got down on his knees. There was just light enough to see his figure black against the white of the sheet that covered the cot. For some minutes he knelt motionless, as if in prayer, though no sound escaped him. Then he stretched out his big black hand and passed it over the body, smoothing it gently and patting it tenderly as one would a sleeping child. By and by he leaned closer to my father’s face.