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“Well, I ain’ ezzackly been restin’,” said the aged man, scratching his head. “I’s been pu’su’in’ othah ‘ployments.”

“Oh, yes, but change of work is rest. And how’s the rheumatism, now, any better?”

“Bettah? Why, Mawse Gawge, I ain’ got a smidgeon of hit. I’s jes’ limpin’ a leetle bit on ‘count o’ habit.”

“Well, it’s good if one can get well, even if his days are nearly spent.”

“Heish, Mas’ Gawge. I ain’ t’inkin’ ’bout dyin’.”

“Aren’t you ready yet, in all these years?”

“I hope I’s ready, but I hope to be spaihed a good many yeahs yit.”

“To do good, I suppose?”

“Yes, suh; yes, suh. Fac’ is, Mawse Gawge, I jes’ hop up to ax you some’p’n.”

“Well, here I am.”

“I want to ax you–I want to ax you–er–er–I want–“

“Oh, speak out. I haven’t time to be bothering here all day.”

“Well, you know, Mawse Gawge, some o’ us ain’ nigh ez ol’ ez dey looks.”

“That’s true. A person, now, would take you for ninety, and to my positive knowledge, you’re not more than eighty-five.”

“Oh, Lawd. Mastah, do heish.”

“I’m not flattering you, that’s the truth.”

“Well, now, Mawse Gawge, couldn’ you mek me’ look lak eighty-fo’, an’ be a little youngah?”

“Why, what do you want to be younger for?”

“You see, hit’s jes’ lak dis, Mawse Gawge. I come up hyeah to ax you–I want–dat is–me an’ Manette, we wants to git ma’ied.”

“Get married!” thundered Marston. “What you, you old scarecrow, with one foot in the grave!”

“Heish, Mastah, ‘buse me kin’ o’ low. Don’t th’ow yo’ words ‘roun’ so keerless.”

“This is what you wanted your Sundays off for, to go sparking around–you an exhorter, too.”

“But I’s been missin’ my po’ ol’ wife so much hyeah lately.”

“You’ve been missing her, oh, yes, and so you want to get a woman young enough to be your granddaughter to fill her place.”

“Well, Mas’ Gawge, you know, ef I is ol’ an’ feeble, ez you say, I need a strong young han’ to he’p me down de hill, an’ ef Manette don’ min’ spa’in’ a few mont’s er yeahs–“

“That’ll do, I’ll see what your mistress says. Come back in an hour.”

A little touched, and a good deal amused, Marston went to see his wife. He kept his face straight as he addressed her. “Mrs. Marston, Manette’s hand has been proposed for.”

“George!”

“The Rev. Simon Marston has this moment come and solemnly laid his heart at my feet as proxy for Manette.”

“He shall not have her, he shall not have her!” exclaimed the lady, rising angrily.

“But remember, Mrs. Marston, it will keep her coming to meeting.”

“I do not care; he is an old hypocrite, that is what he is.”

“Think, too, of what a noble work he is doing. It brings about a reconciliation between the east and west plantations, for which we have been hoping for years. You really oughtn’t to lay a straw in his way.”

“He’s a sneaking, insidious, old scoundrel.”

“Such poor encouragement from his mistress for a worthy old man, who only needs rest!”

“George!” cried Mrs. Marston, and she sank down in tears, which turned to convulsive laughter as her husband put his arm about her and whispered, “He is showing the true Christian spirit. Don’t you think we’d better call Manette and see if she consents? She is one of his lambs, you know.”

“Oh, George, George, do as you please. If the horrid girl consents, I wash my hands of the whole affair.”

“You know these old men have been learning such a long while.”

By this time Mrs. Marston was as much amused as her husband. Manette was accordingly called and questioned. The information was elicited from her that she loved “Brothah Simon” and wished to marry him.

“‘Love laughs at age,'” quoted Mr. Marston again when the girl had been dismissed. Mrs. Marston was laughingly angry, but speechless for a moment. Finally she said: “Well, Manette seems willing, so there is nothing for us to do but to consent, although, mind you, I do not approve of this foolish marriage, do you hear?”

After a while the old man returned for his verdict. He took it calmly. He had expected it. The disparity in the years of him and his betrothed did not seem to strike his consciousness at all. He only grinned.

“Now look here, Uncle Simon,” said his master, “I want you to tell me how you, an old, bad-looking, half-dead darky won that likely young girl.”

The old man closed one eye and smiled.

“Mastah, I don’ b’lieve you looks erroun’ you,” he said. “Now, ‘mongst white folks, you knows a preachah ‘mongst de ladies is mos’ nigh i’sistible, but ‘mongst col’ed dey ain’t no pos’ble way to git erroun’ de gospel man w’en he go ahuntin’ fu’ anything.”