There were broad bottom fields skirting the river's edge; rolling uplands sweeping out to the distant hills, where the swine were fattened yearly; thence onward to the Barrens, where the cattle grazed. Lucky the farmer who owned an outlet to the Barrens—a wild, almost unsettled country, rich only in native grass and cool springs.

A fair domain it was, set like a jewel within Tennessean hills, fairer for its romantic scenery, its native wilds; dearer for its crowning grace of southern life and cheer, which, alas! is but a memory. The palmy days of Riverside have departed with the changing times; but the river that swept around the old homestead, whose blue waters silvered in the sunshine and deepened in the shade, laughing over rocky shoals and silent by the high, still cliffs—the river of “ye olden” days—is still the same beautiful, lovely South Afton.

IT must be said that the whole plantation prospered under the steady rule of Aunt Dice. No sooner was she domiciled by her broad cabin hearth than she began to enlarge her borders. Her two years' experience as a hired underling held her in good stead: she understood her master's needs, the merits and demerits of his slaves. Her second coming was an era of greater importance. The negroes, from venerable Uncle Amos to the smallest pickaninny, realized that she held a certain amount of power— how much, she herself did not stop to question; she only knew that she was grateful to a kind master, and she proved her gatitude with the remainder of her long life. For her, too, the change was wholesome; whether from her comfortable surroundings, or the kindly treatment of a new and much-loved master, it is hard to say, but certain it was that the frail, sickly negress gained new strength as the years passed on, until the neighboring slave owners reluctantly acknowledged her “the likeliest nigger on the whole creek.” Certainly she was the hardest worker: she often said there was not a lazy bone in all her body. Not only did she help to tend and rear the children, but she was the ruling spirit of all the “hum and hustle” of each busy day. Her first duty was to sound the long, wild call of the hunting horn from the back gallery, and dole out to the slaves their morning “drams” from the rum barrels in the cellar before the day's work began.

It was here that she commenced her discipline. The long row of rollicking laborers filing up the path from the quarters hastened to a quickstep under her searching glance. Not that she disapproved of merriment. “Light hearts make light work” was a proverb at Riverside. But she received no laggards at her early drink offerings. Uncle Jack knew to a nicety how long to hold his inverted position, his usual obeisance to his morning dram. Aunt Dice heard complacently the rhythmic “pitapat” of merry feet, the back-steps knocked out on the graveled walk, or the jokes which were “swapped” in bantering tones and high good humor—a form of greeting that varied little from morning to morning.

“Hi, dar, nigger; stir yo' stumpers!”

“I takes no slack jaw dis mo'nin'. I walks right ober you 'reckly.”

“Huh! ef yo' sasses me, I slams yo' down, chile, and puts my -foot on yo' haid. What's de kon'squence ob dat?”

“A daid nigger! Dar'll be de kon'squence,” is the cheerful response, while a succession of calls, “hoorahs,” and cries of “Hear dat nigger now!” “Ain't he a steppin'?” sounded clear and vibrant on the still air.

On they came, Uncle Amos quietly in the lead, baring his head to Aunt Dice's courteous “ Good-mo'nin',” Uncle Silas following with his usual plea for a “leetle drap mo' for de mis'ry in de back,” and the sharp response, “Step on, Silas; I want yo' room.”

“Come, boys, be lively; daylight's burnin'.” And the dusky column moved on with boisterous shouts and musical calls, startling the sleepy cocks from the barnyard roosts, and echoing across the river, which lay aflush under the eastern skies.

Aunt Dice, though supervisor, scorned an idle hour. It was she who prepared the well-cooked meals for the master's table; who ordered provisions for the quarters; overlooked the butter-making, the spinning and weaving, the cutting of garments, and the plain sewing for the numerous slaves; never resting her weary feet until the last laborer went back to the fields after the midday meal. Her master sometimes gently interfered: “Two hours' rest at noon, Dice. Man and beast should rest in the heat of the day.”

So when the songs of the laborers rang out from the fields, and the music of wheel and loom went merrily on within, Aunt Dice went out to her cabin to take her well- earned rest and enjoy a quiet smoke, her only indulgence. Her clean, fragrant pipe, used in unobtrusive hours, was never offensive.

The master smiled over his purchase. He had made no mistake. Conscious of his trust, she soon assumed control of the slaves—in a way. Respectful they certainly were; man, woman, and child were under her imperious sway, and well she ruled. Aunt Dice believed in discipline; while one and all liked and admired her, she thought it best to instill into this liking a little of fear, to make it wholesome. A lazy negro was her special detestation. She delighted in scattering a crowd of dusky forms, basking, lizard-like, in the sun. Few of the laziest could stand the curious sidelong glance of her sharp eyes, and many a step quickened under that searching look.

How far her rule extended even the master did not question, nor the mistress, who began to lean upon her and trust to her guidance in the manifold duties of a southern matron. The rule of the house—its domestic duties—it was hers to order. Her judgment was supreme, her counsel never lost. The mistress, who as “Lady Bountiful” dispensed a wide charity, had only to say to her, “Aunt Dice, our neighbor is sick; she needs help.” Aunt Dice packed a full basket and started on her errand of mercy, ministering to the poor in a way well fitted to heal a mind diseased. She fed and nursed, she cleaned and swept, until the bare, rude homes of the poor whites shone bright with the sick faces.

The master found himself referring to her wisdom: “Dicy, shall we kill hogs this week?”

“They's eatin' they heads off, Mos William, an' fat as mud.”

The hogs were slaughtered.

“Is it time to plant potatoes, Dicy?”

“'Pears to me the groun's waitin' fur 'em,” was the busy answer; and the potatoes were planted.

But Aunt Dice was also learning. Within her wholesome surroundings she found much to edify, to help her. The nobility and upright character of her quiet master; the influence of the mistress, a woman of kind speech and gentle manner; the pure atmosphere and well-ordered household; a house whose God was the Lord, the Bible the most honored book in the quaint old bookcase; not a home of pretentious superiority, but one of comfort and solid standing, of quiet, far-reaching charity and Christian excellence—all these elements were unfolding within the stunted soul of the slave an inherent germ of rare worth and beauty. Her observant eyes lost nothing that could serve to strengthen or uplift her. Her hungry soul was feeding.

At night, within her cabin, sounds of mirth and revelry reached her from the quarters, the patter of time-keeping feet, the music of fiddle, banjo, and ringing clevis pins. But the sound which pleased her most, which reached her soul, came from the cabin of Uncle Amos, which was set apart from the quarters in the shadow of the woods; a song whose volume of sweetness and power poured its melody into every chink and crevice of the crowded quarters, hushing the ruder noise of viol and uproarious mirth:

AUNT DICE had her own romance, however; or her sorrow, as it seems more fitting to term a negro's tale of love. Few guess the tragedy that lies buried beneath the stoical exterior of negro life: bravely bearing their domestic troubles, even cheerfully taking them up as their allotted portion.

The master was somewhat surprised when Aunt Dice came to him one Christmas eve, and asked his consent to her marriage with Cæsar, a handsome, stately negro from a neighboring plantation.

“I am sorry to hear this, Dicy,” he said slowly; and perhaps this was the most lengthened advice he had ever given her. “I hardly like the negro. He is too great a beau among the women; too fond of gadding about. However, I shall do the best I can for you.”

Cæsar was ambitious. The beau of the colored community, the gallant of every social gathering, he had looked about for years for a suitable helpmeet—a “quality nigger,” whose position would insure him a promotion to a higher standing. His inordinate vanity suggested Aunt Dice to him—a power at Riverside, and already an aristocrat to her finger-tips—as a means to this end. As her husband he would acquire a preëminence among his own which would place him on a higher scale as a—gentleman. Riverside, too, was a fair field for his ambition in a business way; that is, his possible purchase and position as overseer.

It was evident in a quiet way that Aunt Dice “favored” Cæsar. She approved of his spotless linen, his polite address, his elegant manners. She was attracted. His delicate attentions pleased her. She graciously consented when he asked, with the bow of a Chesterfield: “Lady, will you hab de goodness to 'low me to 'scort you to chu'ch?”

Aunt Dice, sitting at the rear of the “white meetinghouse,” could not help but notice that Cæsar led all his colored brethren in grace and deportment, a steady dignity that with all his faults never failed to command Aunt Dice's respect.

The master made good his promise by buying Cæsar; perhaps he did not tell Aunt Dice the stern talk he received from his new master, when he was promised the hand of the favorite slave.

So they were married. A great feast was spread, one that the darkies long remembered. Uncle Jack stood on his head until his strained sinews reminded him of a more convenient performance. Uncle Silas forgot his aches, and “limbered up” for the occasion. The scraping of fiddles, the tuning of banjos, the jingle of clevis pins, told of a breakdown for the late festivities.

In the mistress's own parlor they stood before the white minister while he read the beautiful formula of the marriage ceremony. Cæsar was resplendent in a suit of broadcloth, ruffled linen, and white satin waistcoat. From the top of his carefully carded hair to the tip of his polished boot he was immaculate. Aunt Dice, clothed in pure white, and not uncomely, was quiet and thankful for the many kindnesses conferred upon her by the white people, and for the blessing laid upon her head under the trembling hands of Uncle Amos.

Cæsar proved a kind husband in many respects; indeed, he always observed toward his wife a courteous bearing and outward show of greatest deference and respect. He executed the honors of his cabin with all the elaborate manners of an old-school gentleman, and the careful hospitality of a southern host. He himself was treated with some distinction as the husband of the princess regent: his meals were served on a white cloth in the master's kitchen, his morning drams from the family sideboard. Gifted with quick intelligence and business-like tact, he was trusted with yearly sales of produce, and never failed his master in accurate accounts and profitable transactions. Promoted to overseer, he indulged his love of pomp and display, and made a stately figure in the cotton fields astride his master's handsome black horse, or riding with conscious superiority beside the great wagons as they rolled into Nashville, laden with the generous harvestings.

This last purchase proved a remunerative one. Cæsar was a valuable slave. But the master's misgivings proved too true. Cæsar was fickle. His shallow nature found no rest beside the deep, still fount of his wife's love and faithfulness. Married life for him had hardly begun before he donned his tall silk hat and renewed his gadding about—a veritable flirt to the day of his death.

Aunt Dice bore her wrongs in silence. None ever heard her complain. There was only a closer application to duty; a noticeable tenderness and devotion to children; an unconscious leaning toward the gentle mistress, who answered the mute appeal with unstinted sympathy.

Cæsar was still an object of grave consideration with Aunt Dice. His wants were attended to with studied care; his silk hat and black clothes always in readiness; his snowy, ruffled shirts the wonder and admiration of his many dusky friends. But her affections settled more surely, perhaps, around her own children, a son and daughter; particularly her son, Charley, who was growing up to manhood, and who, as the unfolding years proved, brought upon her the keenest trial of her life.

Charley was a bright-skinned youth, with jetty curls, and eyes that sparkled with such changeful lights that no one could tell what lay beneath the glittering surface. “The devil is in 'em,” said his playmates.

That Charley was “rapid and onsteady” Aunt Dice realized with sorrow. Moreover, his companionship with Sam, the youngest born of her beloved master, caused her constant uneasiness. How far these boys ventured into mischief or danger, Aunt Dice could not determine. They tamed wild colts and broke the oxen; they hunted, fished, swam, played, and scuffled. Aunt Dice detested this scuffling, which often ended seriously. Charley was ever sullen and hard to control, but Sam, her nursling, had lately begun to measure lances with her and declare his rights as the young master of Riverside. These bold declarations, however, had only ended ignominiously for Sam. She found them one day—Sam and Charley—in a hand-to-hand encounter, rolling and scuffling on her cabin floor.

“What's the cause o' this?” she demanded in a quiet, stern way, which sent Charley cowed to his corner. Sam stood up straight and faced her with his stormy, blue eyes.

“He told me a lie. If he lies, he'll steal. I told him so.”

“Don't be so sho' o' that, Sammy. Come here and set down.”

Again they measured lances. Sam met her keen look boldly.

“Don't call me ‘Sammy.’ Call me ‘Mos Sam’—Aunt Dice—I—”

Aunt Dice led him by the ear with no gentle hand to the stool in the opposite corner.

“Set yo'se'f down thar, twell you fin' yo' manners. I'll call you ‘Mos Sam’ whenever you 'sarves it, chile—whenever you 'sarves it. O, Sam,” her voice dropping suddenly, “why ain't you like Mos William?”

“I can't be like father!” cried Sam wrathfully from the stool which he was careful not to leave. “I never can be like him.”

“It 'pears to me, Sammy,” Aunt Dice continued, “that you've rode ever' calf on the place, an' lamed up the colts, an' you're jist a killin' off all ole mistis' geese. I throwed a gander in the river t' other day, an' a goose to- day. Who is it, you or Charley?”

Mos Sam caught the wicked sparkle in Charley's eyes, and was silent. Aunt Dice looked the guilty culprits over.

“You've allus tried to shiel' Charley, chile, but lis'en to me: keep way f'om him; he ain't no fit comp'ny fur you.”

Mos Sam wriggled on his stool. Charley dug his toes in the ashes on the hearth and eyed his mother sullenly.

Aunt Dice picked up her knitting. Out of doors the sun shone brightly; the birds called and whistled; the river rippled on its way and silvery trout leaped up from its blue waters, gleaming in the sunlight. Farther up the bluff a crowd of negro boys plunged headlong into the cool depths of the “big hole,” their laughing whoops and “dar ye's” sounding tantalizingly clear to the two captives within.

Mos Sam turned his eyes from the shining stretch of river and sought the calm glance of Aunt Dice over her busy needles: “Mammy, I'm hungry.”

Aunt Dice opened wide her cupboard doors: “Here, chile, go 'long now. Stop yo' fightin' an' be a man,” she said—to the flying heels which disappeared around the corner of her cabin.

CORNSHUCKING! Not the New England “husking bee,” famed in song and story, when stalwart youths and rosy maidens were wont to meet and dance on rude barn floors after the busy husking; when the fortunate finder of a red ear of corn tendered his prize to his lady love, the one with whom he “kept company.” Oh no! but the noisy, merry cornshucking of the ante-bellum South, when negroes held high carnival amid swinging ears of corn and around the laden table of the harvest feast; when master and mistress bowed cheerfully to the grotesque rule of the merrymakers for a season—the swift-winged hours of the cornshucking night.

The negro's highest ideal of enjoyment has its necessary accompaniment of a feast. Second only to the Christmas festivities at Riverside, with the array of baked sweetmeats, the crammed stockings of “goodies,” the bowls of creamy eggnog, the happy “Chris'mas gif's,” was the yearly cornshucking, with its merry misrule and harvest cheer. Next in turn came the hog-killing in frosty November, where visions of sparerib pies and backbone stews were realized and enjoyed. The sugar-making in February broke the torpor of winter; and lastly, the wheat harvest in June brought the busy reapers, whose sickles swung amid the yellow grain to the beat and measure of their harvest song, while the “Bob Whites” called through the livelong day. Within a shady inclosure, kept cooler still by swathings of wet green leaves, was the keg of whisky, no less a feature of the summer harvest than the savory dishes served at the quarters, where the dinner horn rang a suggestive sound that the “big pot was put in the little one.”

“Cornshucking, boys!” shouted to the laborers at supper in the quarters' kitchen at Riverside brought forth a slapping and beating, a whoop and call, a general stampede of broganed feet under the kitchen table.

“Dram, dram; oh, dat bottle!” rolled from a pair of lusty lungs.

“Stop dat noise; wait twell yo' time come.”

“Barbecue, barbecue; ham an' turkey! Possum an' taters; chicken stew! Hustle, boys, hustle!”

Preparations began. On the next day invitations went flying across the country, up and down the river, to the colored acquaintances of neighboring plantations. On this particular occasion, Cæsar, who omitted no chance to celebrate his high position, found this a convenient time to illustrate his authority and display his wisdom as a general manager. Pigs, lambs, and a tender calf were slaughtered, and lay roasting slowly over hot coals in the trenches. The hills were scoured for game, the river dragged for fish; chickens, turkeys, and ducks were sacrificed, while at the quarters negro women stirred their bowls of sweetened dough, “whipped” their frosting, or tended the ovens of rich, sweet corn lightbread.

Aunt Dice suspended her rule and smiled over the merry quips and quirks of the waiting women, the antics and pranks of the pickaninnies. She spread the long tables with clean white linen, and piled them to fullness with jellies, custards, and dainty furnishings of her own handiwork—not forgetting, however, to lay by a generous store for the schoolboy Sam, who was taking his first lessons in life under the uncertain favor of a pedagogue's rule. His dinner bucket, Aunt Dice considered, was naturally his greatest consolation since he had arrived at the age of pies, tarts, and flaky pastry. She was wiser than she knew. The schoolboy's heart beat some of its truest throbs for her when he opened his well-packed dinner pail after a trying lesson in syntax.

But the cornshucking!

At nightfall the steady incoming of the invited guests crowded from over the hills and up the valleys, by twos and threes on horseback and muleback; by the dozen in heavy, lumbering wagons; by the half dozen in swift-gliding canoes. The work began. The heaps of corn, piled high in the cribs, dwindled surely under the strong hands of the shuckers. Cæsar, ever mindful of an opportune moment to display his superior excellence, stepped grandly in his best clothes from crib to crib, ordering his troop of busy boys in gathering the huskings, or stowing the corn into barrels. Old men passed the compliments of the day or related their experiences, replete with wisdom. Young men “swapped” their jokes, or bantered for shucking races in braggadocio-like tones. A low, monotonous chanting slowly gathered strength as the dark, smart faces swayed back and forth under the gleaming lamplight:

Louder grew the singing; musical intonations, a call, a beat, a whistle, touched the chorus into life:

The golden ears swung high, swung low. Dusky forms swayed to and fro, while high above the din floated the melody of the cornshucking songs, rising, falling, swelling in perfect measure.

Pickaninnies reveled in the shuck piles. Pickaninnies scampered from barn to quarters' kitchen, and stared with wide-eyed wonder at the fancifully decked tables and huge trays of smoking meats. Sounds of life and bustle at the quarters reached the workers in the cribs, while odors of juicy meats drifted to them from the dying coals in the trenches.

THE eldest son of the house was married. The master settled him on a plantation several miles up the river, and Charley was given to him as part of his marriage portion, which was a relief to Aunt Dice, as he disturbed the quarters with a quarrelsome, dictatorial disposition.

Uncle Amos, too, though old in years, followed the nursling of his heart with the same devotion as when, in his younger days, he had followed his old master, then a tender stripling, from far-off Virginia.

Two years were spent in busy life. Aunt Dice spared no pains to uphold the open hospitality of prosperous Riverside. She spread a tasteful and bounteous table. The old-fashioned sideboard glittered with crystal goblets, bowls of white loaf sugar, and quaint decanters of wine and brandy, for the refreshing of guests and numerous callers—a time-honored custom, now happily abolished.

The elder daughters, two, were married and “settled in homes of their own,” Aunt Dice said proudly. The children, Anne and Katherine, were well provided for. New lands were added to Riverside, new farms bought, and Mos Sam was known now as the young master.

AUNT DICE went her quiet way. It seemed as if she had taken up her mission understandingly—bearing her own troubles quietly, and assuming the burdens of others. The cabin adjoining hers was filled with orphan charges; but the three children of her daughter Fanny she kept in her own room with a faithful nurse whom the master had provided. The youngest of the three, a tiny infant taken from her dead mother's bosom, required her constant oversight.

“How is our little pet, Dicy?” was the master's daily question.

The “little pet” throve wonderfully. “Pet” she was called, and a pet she was, fortunately for her, to the end of her short life. At her crawling age she developed a fondness for the “white folks' house,” and a veritable black crow she was by nature or practice—always into mischief, or into forbidden grounds, wherever her insatiable curiosity led her fat little body. The mistress indulged and petted her, and kept her often out of harm's way in the cozy sitting-room corner, or claimed her attendance when she, the mistress, went her weekly rounds among the sick and poor.

Aunt Dice returned in full measure the kindness heaped upon her during her late affliction. The children of her mistress—always “the children” with Aunt Dice, though they were growing to manhood and womanhood—were objects of her unsparing devotion. Her rebukes were a little more stern, perhaps; but even in this she was never tiresome, always ending a lecture with a quaint piece of drollery and inimitable grotesqueness that one must have known to understand. Aunt Dice was never loquacious. Her sentences were short, terse, and to the point. Indeed, if an expressive gesture could avail, words were not used. A shrug of her shoulders was a sign of disapproval; her dropped lip a ridicule and sufficient lecture in itself; her sidelong look a question that laid bare the heart; but one of her broad, sunshiny smiles was a sufficient recompense for all the golden deeds ever done at Riverside.

Katherine, the eldest of “the children,” was thoroughly initiated into these ways; and Katherine now was uppermost in Aunt Dice's mind, for with the blooming womanhood and brilliant beauty of this “merry maiden” the question of a possible marriage forced itself upon Aunt Dice's mind. She looked with some dismay upon the prospects of her nursling. Who was her choice? Could it still be the Yankee schoolmaster, who was soon to return to his northern home? Aunt Dice only hoped he would depart in peace, and leave the child where negroes were plentiful. Or was it her Cousin Harry—handsome, good-natured Mos Harry, who had strings of negroes to be sure, but was much too fond of his wine cup and much too generous to “save money”?

Aunt Dice put the question plainly when Katherine next visited her cabin: “Who is you goin' to marry, chile?

“Guess, Aunt Dice,” said the spoiled “chile,” spreading out her dainty skirts and resting her slippered feet on the old dog iron.

“That Yankee school-teacher?” ventured the interrogator, painfully.

Katherine pulled a soft, dark curl over her sparkling eyes and smiled wickedly.

“Not yo' Cousin Harry? He's shiftless, chile, if he is a Macy.”

A ringing laugh caused the questioner to stumble sadly in her guessing.

“Sho'ly not that ill- mannered upstart what brags on his money? I'd ruther 'twould be that Yankee—”

The dark curls rested in Aunt Dice's lap. A little ear showed rosy red. “Aunt Dice, you dear, blind old mammy, where are your sharp eyes?”

“The preacher!” said mammy suddenly, dropping her pipe in her surprise. “Who would a thought it? Well, well, chile, you'll never be rich, that's sho', but you'll be kin'ly keered fur all the same. You shall have some niggers to wait on ye. Thar's Harriet an' Chany, Dick an' Joel—all Amos's grandchildren. An' you've got a nice home all waitin' fur ye.”

IN the quiet days that followed, Aunt Dice recovered her usual flow of spirits and wonted activity. The plantation throve under her wise rule and industrious example. The negroes respected, obeyed her. Charley was married, and happier than formerly in the home of his youth.

Joe Cris no longer troubled Aunt Dice, but considerately kept away, visiting her only once a year, bringing his humble offering as an apology for his presence. These visits were received with studied kindness, but great formality. Perhaps the simple old soul felt dimly that he had greatly wronged Aunt Dice; perhaps the enormity of her sacrifice dawned upon him in a clearer afterthought, for he held to the day of his death that “Miss Dicy” was as far above him as the stars.

To the mistress Aunt Dice was a trusted friend, a friend of long-tried worth and human excellence. The young heir of Riverside, who had returned from college, returned also—to rule? Oh no! to the safe covert of Aunt Dice's ample wings and to her almost idolatrous affection. Mos Sam was ever afterwards the song of her heart and burden of her prayers.

But her next care was now her young mistress, Anne, who was gentler than ever in her black gown, growing more and more like her honored mother, consequently more and more dear to Aunt Dice. The question of her approaching marriage was a responsible one, now that the master's wise counsel was no more. Aunt Dice smoked many a pipe over the problem; she pondered deeply, silently, as the fragrant puffs floated up the broad-throated chimney.

Would he pass—that slender, boyish-looking doctor, who was so kind to Mos William in his last illness—who had already won her mistress's gentle respect; would he pass? She learned that he had settled near a small village four miles distant, and had begun the practice of medicine; but who was he—Mos John Trevor? Mos Sam, who looked a stranger through, had received him kindly, generously; a sure sign of approval.

The “young doctor” himself had given Aunt Dice no cause for disquietude; indeed, from the beginning of his friendly footing at Riverside he had shown a fondness for her—an honest admiration, which she had unconsciously returned. How could she have felt otherwise when he had shown from the first a respect and delicate consideration for her, which she had never failed to appreciate? To her surprise he followed at her heels, talking, laughing, questioning, enthusiastic over the winding river, the high cliffs, the blue hills. He praised her cooking, her feathered brood of fowls, her neat dairy. He even found his way to her cabin, and developed a fondness for her cupboard, second only to Mos Sam himself. Aunt Dice soon found herself appropriated. She cleaned his gun, mended his fishing-net, and instructed him as to the “likeliest” holes in the river for fishing. He reminded her of a boy turned loose from school to a long holiday. And so it was: the fresh, green beauty of Riverside was a rest indeed from the long lecture room at the Nashville Medical College, which he had quitted, however, with no small honor, it was said.

But this “boy,” hardly turning twenty-one, was to wed sweet Anne Macy, one of the children of Aunt Dice's heart. The stern experience of her own sad life admonished her. Would the boy make the man in this case? When trials came—as they surely visited all—would he pass, would he hold true? She resorted to the usual formula—a trying ordeal of questions.

“Whar his folks live, Miss Anne?”

“In Nashville, Aunt Dice,” answered Anne painfully.

“Humph! city folks! Ain't they bought a place roun' here some'r's?”

“The plantation, Beechwood, near West Afton.”

“I know where 'tis—a likely place, though West Afton might be called ‘Mud River,’ fur its color. Is they got many niggers at Beechwood?” she asked carelessly.

“I suppose so, Aunt Dice.”

“I likes the boy, Miss Anne,” Aunt Dice concluded, noticing Anne's flushed face; “but he's too young—too young. Seems ef he can't git 'nough fishin' an' huntin' 'long o' Mos Sam. He ain't took life in earnest yit, but he'll have to learn by'mby—then will he stan' by ye faithful?”

“Brother Sam speaks well of him, Aunt Dice,” said patient Anne; “he says he is a man of fine morals and upright character—”

“Oh, he's been well raised, that I knows; he's well-behavin' an' p'lite, an' none too heavy-handed at the sideboard, I notice. I never 'spect to see anuther Mos William, but he may do well 'nough. I wish ye well, chile; I wish ye well. You'll have my own gran'chilluns to wait on ye; they're young, but I'll look a'ter ye.”

John Trevor and sweet Anne Macy were married. Riverside looked beautiful that soft October night. The rooms shone brightly. From dining room to guest chamber, all was complete under the finishing touch of Aunt Dice's faithful fingers. The mistress, clad in a black satin gown which hung in straight lustrous folds about her, her soft muslin kerchief folded neatly over her bosom, her dark hair parted smoothly over madonna-like brows, looked every inch her real self—a sweet, old-fashioned southern woman.

John Trevor arrived from Nashville with his mother and sisters—women Aunt Dice knew at a glance to be gracious and womanly. She stood on the lawn in her best black silk as the carriage, with its stately-stepping horses, drew up through the double gate.

DOCTOR TREVOR and his young wife were often at Riverside; a swift horse to a light buggy soon covered the five-mile distance. He was always sure of a welcome. The mistress smiled upon him. The young master greeted him cordially. Aunt Dice ministered to him, gradually unbending from her dignified demeanor and favoring him occasionally with her grotesque figures, grimaces, and caricatures, all of which conveyed a moral easily interpreted by the wise observer. Notwithstanding, she watched him closely. John Trevor was still boyish and full of fun. He climbed the hills, hunted in the Barrens, and fished for hours by the deep blue “hole” under the bluff. When called professionally, as he was now the family physician, his first greeting from the double gate was:“Quick, Aunt Dice—my pole and reel! I'll have time for an hour's fishing.” Aunt Dice began to wonder if life would ever prove an earnest thing to the pleasure-loving young physician.

True to her word, she rode over to Beechwood at stated intervals on her mistress's riding horse, to look after Anne and her household. These visits John Trevor usually appropriated. To him Aunt Dice was an unfailing source of amusement. He never tired of her droll ways and quaint remarks. He followed her from kitchen to garden; he chatted with her, questioned her, smoked with her, ever on the alert for a new gesture or original saying. To him she was a study. He delighted in reading to her short, simple stories, content to watch her grave, puzzled face. He ransacked the library for a suitable story, one within the range of her understanding. Ah! he had it—a simple thing, giving in connection with a domestic scene a detailed account of choice eatables, cooked to a turn.

Aunt Dice listened. For once she was on a level with the story. The savor of imaginary viands on an imaginary table smote her nostrils. She interrupted him: “Stop, Mos John! stop! I'm a perishin' fur a piece o' co'nbread—I'm so hungry.” Mos John laughed delightedly and—lunched with her.

Aunt Dice's intense pride, her grand air, the majestic sweep of her broad lips, interested as well as amused John Trevor. She never wore gaudy colors, nor used a head handkerchief—a style too significant of the common African type to suit her patrician fancy. Despite her color, she never termed herself a negro. She had pondered long over the problem of her lineage, contenting herself at last with the concession that she sprang from the bluest “blue blood” of far-away Africa. When suggested to her by John Trevor—by reason of gout in her great toe—that she may have descended from a long race of kings, for centuries used to high living and princely diet (cannibalism was omitted), she listened gravely, and must have believed herself a princess in cotton, for ever afterwards this particular toe received her tenderest consideration. In spite of her precautions, Aunt Dice found within her heart a growing fondness for Mos John. “He ain't been tried yit,” she argued; but she carried home a cheerful report to the mistress. “Mos John's a good purvider—a leetle too free-handed with money, but Miss Anne's well keered fur.”

Aunt Dice's services were often in demand at Beechwood. One day in the following spring Anne Trevor read in some dismay a note which her husband had laid in her hand. It ran thus:

“What shall we do?” asked Anne, helplessly. “Too early for vegetables—Eliza so inexperienced—”

“Send for Aunt Dice,” advised John, promptly.

Aunt Dice was sent for.

“Got many aigs?” she asked, after due explanations.

“Yes, several dozen.”

“Then I'll make out. Kill me a sucking pig, Mos John,” she said, rising busily; “make the niggers seine fur fish. Tell 'em I want a sof'-shell turtle, sho', fur soup. Gimme one o' your fattes' hens, Miss Anne, an' that'll do fur meat. Git out your bes' table kiver, your gol' ban' chany, ole mistis giv' you, an' see ef your silver needs a shine.”

Thus strengthened, the work progressed. Aunt Dice flitted hither and thither, retarded only by the persistent attendance of John Trevor, who enjoyed the pleasant bustle. “He's the wust sp'iled boy I knows of,” she said cheerfully. “You'll have to humor him all your days, Miss Anne.”

Thursday came, and with it the guests. Aunt Dice surveyed the table with some pride. The sucking pig lay roasted whole, with a rosy apple in his mouth; the fat hen, garnished with parsley and boiled eggs, was brown and juicy; the turtle soup, excellent; the salads, fish, and potatoes, perfect. Crimson jellies and amber wine gleamed rich and warm with the burnished silver and sweet spring flowers. Strong black coffee, served in tiny cups, was sent to the pleasant drawing-room.

John Trevor, Sr., recognized a good dinner. Before his departure he sought Aunt Dice, bent on the usual “tipping,” a custom of the times. “Aunt Dice,” he said kindly, tendering her a shining coin, “you gave us a good dinner, a good dinner, ma'am. You are an excellent cook, I see.”

“Thanky, suh,” said Aunt Dice, drawing up her lips; “but I never 'ceive money, suh, fur duty.”

THE old conservative South had many virtues to call her own. Not the least of these was the purity of her religion. Her old aristocracy, her highborn dames and courtly men, thought it no concession to honor the world's Redeemer. In this respect the South may still be called conservative. While she fills her homes with products of northern thrift and invention, while she brightens her firesides with periodicals of northern literary excellence, her libraries, which still honor the well-worn volumes of Bacon, Shakespeare, Bunyan, and Sir Walter Scott, are subservient to and ever as things apart from the Bible, whose living truths are accepted from cover to cover.

Aunt Dice was comforted. “Mos John'll allus be faithful,” she said. She felt that her young mistress was safe in his care. Her own grandchildren, the motherless ones, would still look up to a kind master. These three grandchildren, who were part of Anne Trevor's marriage portion, were contented and happy at Beechwood. Eliza, the eldest, was quiet and true, much like her honored grandmother; Julia was tall, strong, and willing; while Pet—still a spoiled pet—was very fat and saucy, very good-natured, and very delinquent in her duty sometimes.

A YEAR passed slowly. The mistress, who had so bravely hung up her blue chintz gowns and donned the colors of her son, seemed to falter through the long silence which brought no news of him. She followed Aunt Dice about like a shadow, which often sent the faithful watcher to her cabin in hot haste for a troubled smoke and a struggle for fortitude.

“Aunt Dice, can you bring your knitting and sit with me awhile at night?”

“To be sho' I kin. What's to hender me?”

Aunt Dice never knew how she smiled or brought herself to gossip, and tell her “silly nothings,” as they sat together at night, knitting socks for “rebel” soldiers; she never knew how she changed from a decisive, short-spoken woman to a loquacious, ceaseless talker; she only knew that she had gained her end when rewarded by a patient smile. She discussed the weather, the flight of wild geese, the soap-making, the spinning and weaving, the young calves, the spring lambs; she talked of old, old times, of far-away memories—anything and everything but the children, lest the thought bring up the absent boy, whose name was never mentioned. She searched the place for an atom of news. “Ole Topknot's in fur anuther settin' spell. Sousin' in the river don' do no good, so I sot her on goose aigs; she'll git settin' 'nough now fur a spell, I reck'n. Topknots ain't noted fur sense. The mockin' birds is splittin' they throats; they's feelin' the springtime” —she would say, to tempt her mistress out into the soft April sunshine; or, “The dogwood's blossomin' an' the redbud in the hills—'tain't long afore spring.” Still the frail, tired body faded slowly.

“Remember my poor, Aunt Dice,” the mistress said one day; and then the faithful watcher knew that, with all her care, her multiplied words and cheerful encouragement had been in vain. John Trevor was her help and comfort; he gave to Riverside all the time that his growing practice and growing family would admit. But all the tenderness of faithful friends could not avail. Before the close of spring the gentle soul of the mistress went out, to know no sad to-morrow of that gloomy time. Aunt Dice stood alone—terribly alone! Shocked, amazed at the magnitude of her duty, but one thought spurred her on—the thought of her master.

“Mos Sam is ruined,” Aunt Dice said, as she closed the doors of Riverside, after the sad funeral. The negroes no longer made a show of submission. Riverside was burdened with debt and crowded with rebellious slaves; a turbulent spirit had risen among them, which Aunt Dice found impossible to quell. She managed with difficulty to till the land and gather the crop. A new suspicion filled her with dread. Charley, her own son, whose purchase money had swelled the debt of Riverside, was dictatorial, rebellious, a disturbing element in the quarters. She upbraided him sternly; she commanded, implored, entreated, but an angry, sullen look was the only response. She pointed to a tall marble shaft which shone solemnly from the cemetery: “Fur Mos William's sake, Charley, don' leave Mos Sam.”

“G'way f'om here, mammy; lemme 'lone. I'm g' wine to Nashvul, I is, an' be a free gen'l'mun. I'll tote fur no man f'om dis here on.”

Her pleading was vain. Charley's cabin was empty one morning. Aunt Dice was bereft.

Thus her long watch began. She saw the negroes depart, slaves no longer, swelling day after day the number of them who had “run off to the Yankees.” But the glory of Riverside had also departed. She saw the old home shorn of its beauty; the fences were burned, the barns emptied, the cattle, horses, and sheep driven off or slaughtered; the home of her beloved mistress desecrated and pillaged under the cruel ravages of war. Even the tall clock in the dining-room corner, which had ticked in and out the happy years of Riverside's prosperity, stood with a white, dismayed face, its glass doors shattered, its pendulum crushed and broken, its faithful hands ruthlessly torn from their place of duty; the old clock, which had rung in the births, chimed at the weddings, and tolled out the deaths at Riverside, stared now from its corner like a human thing bereft of a soul!

Aunt Dice heard nothing of the master; still her lonely watch went on, and she said to herself sometimes as a sad refrain: “Mos Sam, you're ruined—you're ruined!” The long winters passed; the dull “wash-wash” of the river sounded on her listening ears. The summers came and went; the whippoorwills called from the cemetery, the mocking birds trilled in the maples, the river murmured like a friend at her feet—still the master came not. News of him floated to her at last between the silences: Mos Sam was a brave soldier—was captain of a company—was wounded—in prison; then she heard no more.

Once only did her heart fail. A squad of Confederate soldiers passing by one day saw a pathetic figure standing over the bluff, beckoning to them.

“Whar is Mos Sam?” she quavered, thinking in her innocent soul that all the world should know “Mos Sam.”

“Dead!” “killed!” “shot!” came back to her in a rude, laughing chorus.

“I jes' whooped an' hollered all night,” she said to a kind neighbor, who reassured her.

Her fidelity did not go unquestioned. Her own color eyed her askance as a friend to the “rebels.” Among her white neighbors some looked on her with suspicion, as possibly harboring Federals; she was accordingly visited by a company of blue-coated soldiers, who threatened her with fire, steel, and ugly army pistols if she did not disclose to them the hiding place of some “rebels” in the vicinity. But her stern old eyes did not quail. She knew not the meaning of “martyr”; she had never heard of a “noble Roman”; but her one lesson of faithfulness she had learned well. The soldiers passed over the river with a rousing cheer for Aunt Dice; then she realized sadly that she had been under trial.

Still she sowed her scanty seed and reaped her shattered harvests. The little worn path over the bluff by the river told of her weekly visits to the nearest store, where she sold her chickens and eggs; told also of as many visits to the cemetery, where, on these errands, it was her habit to sit and rest, alone with her dead. Years before she had planted in an oblong circle about Cæsar's grave those early harbingers of spring—golden candlesticks—which, when aflame in early March, lit up the somber cedars, and made a glorious altarpiece of the simple headstone. Here she rested on her weekly journeys.

Aunt Dice realized at last that the end of the great civil war was near—a disastrous ending for the South, but peace was none the less welcome. The golden candlesticks had bloomed again around Cæsar's grave when the blessed news came—the long war was over.

Where was Mos Sam? How she scraped and saved and hoarded! How she watched and waited in the silence! How she hoped and feared and prayed in the solitude of her lonely cabin!

But the master rode in quietly one night in the light of the young moon, stabled his Yankee mare, climbed the rickety fence by the deserted quarters, and looked over his desolate home. The river murmuring below, the lazy “swish-swish” of her waters against the rocks, were the only sounds that greeted him. At length a familiar figure came slowly down the path, with bowed head, and hands folded behind her. “Aunt Dice!” he called softly. She looked up quickly, knowing well the square shoulders outlined against the twilight sky; then running to him swiftly, she fell on her knees at his feet, taking up the old refrain: “Mos Sam, you're ruined—you're ruined!”

Her strength gave way at last; her strained nerves relaxed. She had bravely dared those four long years alone. Her trust was fulfilled. She continued sobbing at his feet.

“Don't grieve, Aunt Dice,” the master said, sadly. “Your boy has come back to you, and he is half starved.”

Aunt Dice listened. She had heard complaints of a half-starved boy before, though never so sadly as this. She dried her tears suddenly. She hoarded her sweet surprise. “Nuthin' in the house fitten' fur you to eat, Mos Sam—nuthin' but a piece o' co'n bread.”

“Give me one of your good, brown corn pones, Aunt Dice,” said the master, cheerfully.

THROUGHOUT the year the table was supplied, the master knew not how; not poorly or sparingly kept, but almost with the generous excellency of former days. The master little dreamed of the struggle as, weak from recent wounds, he built fences, or plowed his Yankee mare beside a venerable riding-horse which was once his mother's. Too proud to acknowledge that she lived by her wits, Aunt Dice smuggled to the country store her chickens, eggs, and butter, her fancy cookies and gingerbread, so that her slender purse held out as did the proverbial meal barrel.

Yet the year was a happy one. It was her pleasure to labor with unceasing thrift to provide these luxuries; her pride to lend a helping hand to the upbuilding of her master's broken fortunes. It was a happy year, notwithstanding the new burden of debt which lay heavily upon the master. He was forced to borrow a sufficient sum to build up the waste places, to buy grain and stock, and for the additional expense of hire—a new experience for the impoverished southerner. His impatient soul chafed under the fretting weight. “What shall I do, Aunt Dice?” he asked one day, in an extremity of doubt and distress.

Aunt Dice glanced at him quickly and started in a swift trot for her cabin. A new problem this for her sixty-sixth year! She smoked her faithful pipe while she studied. What was to be done? Sell Riverside? Oh no! She pondered, questioned, considered. After all there was but one way, she concluded, as she laid her pipe on the shelf. She went back cheerfully. “Shoulder your debts, Mos Sam; you can't shift 'em. Go 'long now to work. Go 'long, les'n yon don't want no br'iled chicken an' waffles fur supper.”

Mos Sam was comforted, somehow.

At this time a message from Joe Cris, who was earning a precarious living by basket-making near Nashville, startled Aunt Dice into remembrance of her painful past. He sent her his humble regards; also an invitation to share with him his home and small living. Aunt Dice spurned the offer with contempt, and returned a sharp answer, with the significant question, “Is you a fool?” For this Aunt Dice may have been censured. Indeed, it was evident that she, who had ever been so responsive to the slightest call of duty, was strangely delinquent in the obligations of her second marriage. But her conscience in this respect was a matter of education. Tutored in her one school of faithfulness—that of allegiance to her white people—she scorned all persuasion, advantageous or otherwise, to leave her beloved Riverside. Perhaps, too, she felt that she had been unfairly bought. Joe Cris had no great claim upon her. Moreover, in the days following their freedom, many of the negroes were uncertain breadwinners. Improvident in summer; ragged, shivering, or homeless in winter; they too often made a pitiable spectacle of gaunt hunger and wretchedness. The question of bread, clothing, and shelter had a broader meaning than they had realized. The dependent slaves found in their freedom such cares and responsibilities that robbed the word of much of its sweetness and flavor. Many, chary of their wings, remained within the security of their former homes; some stayed through pure devotion to their masters, while a large number, trained to divers trades, earned a comfortable living. Aunt Dice had small confidence in the ability of the negro, much less would she trust herself in the keeping of one. Nevertheless, she made it her duty to send Joe Cris gifts of clothing and money as long as he lived. Mos Sam needed her; she would not leave him.

With the next year's increase Riverside began to assume an ante-bellum look; not with the old prosperity, for loans and mortgages were the questions of the day, but the long deserted cabins were peopled with dusky forms, some of whom were former slaves.

Aunt Dice began again her imperious rule and discipline. The old fields crept into life. The rolling uplands were covered in billowy wheat. The tinkling of sheep bells sounded a call of peace, while the river sang in her old happy way, for the master was to bring home a bride in the late fall— the woman with the “sweet, proud look,” whose love had bidden him hope through five dark years. Fortunately for Aunt Dice, the soon-to-be mistress held a high place in her esteem. As the time approached, she began preparations for the wedding.

The day dawned cold and snowy. “Fix up things, Aunt Dice,” said the master, as he departed for his twenty-mile ride to Nashville. She needed no further order. When the wedding party returned she met them on the lawn in stately fashion, her master's hounds baying about her. The old home smiled with the warmth of old-fashioned southern hospitality. The hickory fires roared up the chimneys in generous welcome. The long table in the dining room gleamed and glittered with the evidences that Aunt Dice's faithful hands had not lost their cunning.

There were eight long years of quiet for Riverside; years that were golden with hope and rich with its promises; years of peace and rest after the turbulent season of war. Children played again under the maples. Childish laughter rang through the cool galleries. The new mistress reigned with a queenly grace and charm of manner that held captive the esteem of all South Afton. Indeed, the country folk soon learned to love the strange woman in their midst, who was so wondrous kind and sweet.

Aunt Dice never criticised her. She never made her mistress a subject of her trying mimicry, but invariably held her up to the numerous grandchildren as a model of gracious dignity and charming womanhood. But Mos Sam was still the darling of Aunt Dice's heart. To him she filled the office of mother in more ways than one. The responsibilities of this relation she did not shirk. If she thought he needed reproof, she was quick and stern in giving it. “Git up f'om thar, Mos Sam, complainin' of your woun's, an' wishin' ye had a millyun. Go to work. Money won't walk to ye.” Such rebukes were wholesome, and never out of place in the days when the debt problem was an unanswered one and a grievous burden to the southern landowner.

Aunt Dice may have saved her master from a fatal despondency in his straitened circumstances by her kindly words of cheer, or a caustic rebuke which she covered adroitly with a quaint remark, sure to bring a smile; but much more did she prefer to honor him with all the doting fondness of a mother.

“Anything in your cupboard for me, Aunt Dice?” was the frequent question.

“Dunno, Mos Sam,” she would answer, almost ignoring the question; “ye'd better look.”

He was sure to find a generous store—whitest bread and honey, cold chicken, her famous pies and cookies, which were noted for their excellence.

These were her happy hours. He was all her own when he sat with her in her cabin and talked with her of the old times, the days of her kind old master.

THE subject of the war was a sore one to Aunt Dice. She looked upon it as a personal matter, deploring the thought that her own people had caused the ruin of Riverside—had impoverished her dear young master. She tried to bury this sorrow quietly as she had buried her other griefs, but she could not order the thoughts of her master nor bid his bitter memories be gone. She knew that the war spirit controlled him when she saw his restless pacing back and forth; the nervous twitch of his fingers, as if they longed to draw a sword; the quick flash of his eyes, as if the vision of a hard-fought battle rose up before him, or the roar of cannon and musketry lingered in his ears.

“Debt ain't all he's a studyin' over,” Aunt Dice said. She watched him as he sat on the gallery, gazing with far-seeing eyes across the dimpling, smiling river.

“Aunt Dice, I would gladly fight through four years more—go hungry, ragged; sleep in snowdrifts, by the wayside, anywhere—just to try the whole thing over.”

“Mos Sam, let the war go. What good do it do to set an' study over it? It's all pas' an' gone now; make the best of it.”

BEECHWOOD was a memory only. A cluster of tall chimneys told where the pleasant mansion had stood, while grass and weeds grew about the deserted cabins. The lands, no longer a family possession, were divided into several farms under enterprising owners. Doctor Trevor, who had removed to the village of P—, close by, owned a small farm within its limits, the cottage and office fronting the village street or pike. “Vine Cottage” it was called, from the riotous growth of vines—rose, clematis, and wild honeysuckle—over the trees, porches, and fences. In front ran a brooklet, falling across a bend in the pike, forming a miniature cataract, which the children called “Niagara Falls”—in the winter only; the summer found its dry bed a rich field for a playground.

The farm, beyond a few acres in cultivation, rounded into hills, bristled into thickets, or gaped into gullies—another convenient playground for the children, provided they were regardless of clean frocks and constitutionally fond of clay pies; a farm which conveyed less than half the meaning of the word, and left a rich overplus in woody depths and dewy dingles; in thickets musical with birds and fragrant with wild flowers; in orchards where bees hung drowsily over seas of pink and white bloom, where the fruit was the rosiest and most luscious; in gardens where big red roses ran riot over squashes and melons, of the sweetest and best. Morning-glories gloried in the corn, and flung their purple banners from the topmost tasseling; raspberries ripened along the hillsides and narrow paths; dewberry vines scrambled over gullies and ran helter-skelter through the best bottom field, bearing their luscious fruit. The old beeches, crowning the hill pasture, were the shadiest in the whole country round; while the willows, fringing the streamlet at its base, listened to a musical rhyme never dreamed of by the farmer's boy who plowed his weary way on the opposite hillsides. Rural beauty held here a peaceful reign; rural sights and sounds were undisturbed by the hurrying bustle of busy life. Hawks sailed lazily overhead; owls brooded in hollow trees; the blue heron dreamed in the swamp; while the crows cawed from the treetops through the livelong days. The spirits of the woods—the birds, the flowers—driven from the carefully husbanded soil of the neighboring hills, gathered here for a continual jubilee, and sang and grew and sported within their wonted haunts—the leafy coverts of Vine Cottage farm.

John Trevor, though he had suffered reverses during the trying times of war, and was struggling with others to master the question of debt, possessed still a characteristic buoyancy and hopefulness of disposition. Busy with a heavy practice, and his wife and children depending solely upon him, he was still a “good purvider,” as Aunt Dice had said. She never had cause to retract her decision of his faithfulness and worth. Stone by stone he had built an honored name in the place of his adoption. Older heads than his looked up to him, and steady farmers of long experience and varied wisdom looked kindly upon him and trusted him.

In his busy life he had little time for his wonted sports and pleasures. Through the more leisure month of May, a few hours spent on the banks of his beloved South Afton with rod and line was the only recreation permitted him from year's end to year's end. There, while the soft swish of the waters against the rocks, the smiling sky overhead, the calling of birds from the fields, rested and refreshed him, he lived a different life for the time—something apart from the pill-making, prescription-writing duties of workyday hours.

“Mos John'll never grow ole,” Aunt Dice said; “he keep his heart young.” All that she saw lovely and beautiful in nature she called his. The blue skies and sailing white clouds, the wayside flowers, all that the country physician saw and noted through the long lanes, by the hill ridge roads or the dusty pikes; even the squirrels that chattered from the trees or sported along rock walls and rail fences—all were his. “Mos John's martins is come,” she would say in the spring; or, “I hear Mos John's little flute bird,” of the sweet-throated thrush. The cooing spring doves, the whistling summer partridges, all were Mos John's. “The birds is singin' fur Mos John,” she was wont to say, as if she thought that nature knew and loved her own, or that the skies smiled more sweetly over the daily walk of one beneath who was so earnest and true. She began to watch jealously the solitary fisherman by the bluff spring in the spare hours of the May-time seasons. “You'se got a call, Mos John; I hates to tell ye,” she said sometimes, showing her silvered head over the bluff. “'Pears like ye might have a leetle res'.”

“Never mind, Aunt Dice,” answered the country physician, cheerfully. “I shall take a trip to the mountains some time in the near future, and for two whole weeks I shall rest and forget all the world of aches and pains.”

“To be sho' ye might,” she said. The far-off mountains had grown suddenly interesting to her, since they held in reserve a rest and solace for the tired physician.

From the first year of his career John Trevor had resolved upon this little recreation—two long weeks to spend upon the mountains, among the mountain brooks and speckled trout. It was a picture framed in his mind which cheered him often by the lonely wayside. But the pleasant vision flitted before him like a mirage of the desert. The earnestness of his profession had developed through sober experience. Resolutions formed within him under the kindly admonitions of college lecturers had grown to a steady purpose. The years of his youth, it was true, had been spent mainly in the upbuilding of his practice, in overcoming prejudices against his inexperience, and perhaps more than all his outcropping progressive ideas. None the less, too, did he know that he had run the gauntlet through the length and breadth of his practice in matters of religion, morals, and politics; in which he was fairly successful, he was pleased to remember. His modest little debt, though only the sum of a few hundreds, had assumed a proportion to his income which caused him to waken occasionally at night and stare blindly into darkness, trying to conjecture the best possible mode of payment; a problem he needed not to have considered, were all those unpaid accounts which accumulated in his office desk forthcoming. Nevertheless, in the prime of his manhood he contemplated with some pleasure the wide bounds of his substantial practice. He had won. He had paid his debt also, laboriously it was true, dollar by dollar, but freedom was all the more grateful. Still the vision of mountain brooks and speckled trout was yet unrealized. He had never found time to take his recreation of two long, whole weeks, when he was to forget disease and all its unlovely aspects. New duties crowded upon him, new calls upon his time and purse. His growing family, his church, his people, filled up the measure of his busy life. Naturally, there were divers kinds to please among his people, as he chose to call them: some who were shrewd and calculating, weighing carefully the issues of life and death in the balance with the doctor's bill; peremptory ones, who excused no time or circumstance; and others, though few in number, who were quick to censure and slow to acknowledge a kindly deed. But the friends who loved and trusted him, these were they whose homes were his resting places along the way; within whose homes, too, he remembered, he had done his most valiant battling with the terror, death. Many a palm had he borne aloft, when patient and nurse fell into line with him against the foe.

So the seasons rolled away year after year, and he learned with their changes the coldest sweep of the windy hillsides, the longest lanes of the hot summer's sun. Night had grown as familiar to him as the broad light of day; he knew its sights and sounds—the shadowy woods and cry of night-birds, the pale, cold moonlight, the solemn stars. The elements kept him familiar company—the whistling winds, the shrouding snow, the down-pouring rain.

Many a night had he lifted the latch of the little gate, tired, cold, and hungry; but never too tired or cold or hungry to neglect his patient horse, the companion of his journeyings. As was natural to his profession, he was a careful man, and conscientious in the smallest detail of everyday life. The little gate was carefully latched, the stable door as carefully fastened, the doors and windows of his home tested, the kitchen fire inspected, and the andirons turned in a methodical way, before the weary physician sought his couch—to rest? Perhaps, did not a melancholy “halloo” arouse him to the cold fact of another night ride.

Even the river used him ill at times—his beloved South Afton—when she wrapped him in her chilly mists and enveloped him in her fogs; she dealt him treacherously when with her changeful fords she ingulfed him in her chill, brown waters and gurgled cruelly about him. But this country doctor had grown inured to hardships, to buffeting wind and weather. He was a happy man, notwithstanding. The little joys of life had kept his nature as sweet as charity.

He loved his home. No ride was so cold or dark that he did not see in perspective a lamplit table crowded with books, a waiting chair, and a welcome as warm as the light that streamed from its windows. A steaming supper, with many a dainty tidbit, rewarded his tardy home-comings.

Man and beast never went hungry at Vine Cottage, it was said. “He's de bes' hoss-moster in dis whole kentry,” said an old darky, referring to his fat horses. Not only so, but there was never a motherless chicken, a dethroned king of the barnyard, or a lamed dog, within the precincts of John Trevor's home but knew him for their friend. Even the white Maltese cat that yearly reared her young in his corncrib received his tenderest care. It was no small duty to feed and tend this interesting family each year—to turn the anxious mother in and out; no matter how tired, to house them for the night; but this he did carefully, almost with painful exactness. So when the prudent housewife disposed of Patsy and her kittens, she discovered surprisedly that her husband had sustained a loss which amounted almost to an affliction.

With John Trevor's natural love of humor it is not surprising that he kept in store many a coined and polished phrase for the benefit of the local wits who visited the village store front. Many a challenge he received when he bared his head to the cool shade of the locust trees in front, many a sharp retort did he send to the comfortable group on the store porch—replies so quick and ready that the villagers changed their quids in haste for a fresh onslaught, ere the steady steps of the doctor's horse sounded far up the dusty pike.

But there came a time when this country physician felt a weariness in his limbs, a throbbing in his temples, that he could not account for. A little malaria from the creek bottoms, he argued; a little cold from continuous night riding—surely that was all. He bought warmer flannels for winter, prepared his quinine tonic for summer; but suddenly, despite his will, and very reluctantly at last, this tired physician had his vacation: not on the breezy mountain heights, or under the quiet stretch of dim pine forests; not beside the cool, green depths of mountain brooks; but tossing on a sick bed in weariness and pain, with restless hands and fevered tongue, he babbled of crystal waters, he spun his reel and swung aloft his speckled trout!

“The doctor is sick,” the neighbors said. The news traveled quickly from plain to hillside, from hamlet to mansion house. Wine, fruits, and flowers crowded the modest home of the sick physician; carriages and buggies rolled up to the little front entrance; horses and braying mules were hitched to outstanding posts. The poor came toiling over the hills to the shadowed home, where they listened through closed doors to the unconscious babbling of their family doctor. Day by day they gathered and turned away without a sight of his familiar face; day by day they crowded the gallery, the adjoining room, the front lawn. When the first uncertain news of a better change reached them, they stood determinedly before his door.

“The doctor—we must see him.”

“He is too sick, too sick,” the watchers said. But when a thin, weak voice bade them enter, they stole in quietly, solemnly; content to grasp his hand, to look in his face, and pass on.

“The doctor is getting well,” they said. Then it was that they vied with one another in kindly ministry, and with strangely tender hands. The doctor's life was precious in their sight.

AUNT DICE'S visits to Vine Cottage were frequent in the days of peace following the war. To John Trevor her companionship was as wholesome as in earlier days; always to him a subject of fresh interest and an object of honest affection. In truth, Aunt Dice exerted herself to be agreeable to him, in which she succeeded admirably, being wise enough to know when to be silent and when to be amusing. John Trevor looked forward to the sight of her silvered head over the little front gate, where she awaited his return from a hot, dusty ride. Her unobtrusive ministry—her offering of cool water dripping from the spring, a palm-leaf fan put quietly within his hand, his slippers laid beside him—he noted gratefully. With what a delicate perception she said: “Don't chillun! don't tell your pa he's got a call no sooner'n he comes in; let him res' fust.” All of which the overworked physician thoroughly appreciated. In her heart she loved Mos John next to her own dear master, while her fondness for the child of her rearing—sweet, patient Anne Trevor—grew stronger and dearer as the years slipped by.

These visits were ever seasons of rejoicing to the children, though Aunt Dice often came on a tour of inspection. It was no common occurrence to see her pick up a handful of weeds or a bit of paper, on her way from the side gate to the back entrance at Vine Cottage: “It looks onsightly in de yard,” her first greeting.

“Gethered any berries, Miss Anne?” she asked once, in blackberry time.

Anne Trevor's negative reply called forth a happy chorus from the little ones: “Let us go with you, Granny!”

“Git your buckets,” ordered Granny, shortly, knocking the ashes from her pipe.

The walk to the thicket was pleasant enough, wading through fresh air and sunshine. Moreover, Granny's drolleries were unusually entertaining; but picking berries was quite another thing. Granny turned a stern face to the little flock crowding after her. “I don't want no close neighbors. Folks can't talk an' work too. Git yo' patch, an' pick.”

That long, hot afternoon was not soon forgotten. Not a word was spoken until the tin pails were filled. The slanting sunbeams fell on tired, flushed faces when the task-mistress called out cheerily. “Come on, chillun; le's go home.”

John Trevor renewed his old habit of reading aloud to Aunt Dice, and laughingly declared that she had developed into quite a literary woman. Though ofttimes puzzled—which caused Anne Trevor to smile pityingly at her dark, bewildered face—it interested John Trevor to note that the elegant, flowing style of Irving charmed her; that Dickens excited her to a quick laugh over his life-like protrayals of men and things familiar to her; that poetry soothed her. But it must be acknowledged that John Trevor liked best to read to her some short, stirring romance, and over the book watch her distressed face when the hero and heroine were toiling through the mazes of the plot, or to listen for her relieved “Thar now!” when all ended well and blissfully. Aunt Dice, too, might have noticed a suspicious shaking of the book and a certain vibration in John Trevor's voice which hinted of his fun-loving propensities. But her comments were worth remembering. Of fiction she understood nothing; they were real living beings in those books, men and women who sinned and suffered or lived nobly. “He mus' a been a likely man,” she would say, respectfully, of some character who had patiently suffered and borne his burden. A life of self-sacrifice, a deed of charity, a duty faithfully done, caught her quick sympathy.

“What is your opinion, Aunt Dice?” asked John Trevor, as he finished a well-known book from a well-known author.

“Too much whisky, Mos John,” she said decisively. “It's a drink here, and a drink thar. More'n I ever heerd tell of in ole moster's days, 'pears to me. Wine an' brandy'll git the best o' men, if they tech it too often.” The cleaner pages of the present day would have pleased her. The punch bowl, the mugs of ale and beer, so pleasingly described, were odious things to her. “Whisky ruins a man,” she said. Even in the days of free distilleries, Aunt Dice tasted alcohol, as a medicine, sparingly; but as a beverage, never.

Notwithstanding her objections, Aunt Dice's respect for books was great. She looked upon the knowledge contained in them almost with awe—a wonderland to her that she never hoped to explore—but she was decided in her opinion that they were “not fur niggers.” “Book larnin' spiles a nigger,” she argued. She might have thought differently had she lived to this day, but she scored a triumph once. Uncle Billy Barnes, a neighboring “cullud gen'l'mun” of some property, was quite a leader among his own, and talked education in every lane and byway, when not engrossed in earning a penny or turning over a dime. On an occasion, when Aunt Dice was enjoying one of her visits, Uncle Billy appeared at Vine Cottage, his favorite market place—for, as he said, “the doctor gives livin' prices” —trundling a wheelbarrowful of turnips. Aunt Dice received him with some deference, smoothing out her apron in a dignified way. Standing by the fire, turning his huge feet to its warmth, Uncle Billy discoursed upon his favorite theme in broad, Tennessee-negro dialect: “Now, who'd a thought thar wus so much in books? My gals kin stump me enny nite outen dem books. My darter, Sally—you knows her—axes me t'other nite, ‘Pa, what make it col' in winter, an' hot in summer?’ Now, you knows I ain't no fool, but dat wus de fus' time I uver thought of sich a thing. I answers, ‘I dunno; what you know 'bout it?’ So she sez, ‘De teacher tol' me—'cause de sun is furder off in winter, an' closter in summer.’ Well, dat soun' reas'n'ble to me, but I never would a knowed it ef it hadn't ben fur books.” Uncle Billy pocketed his fifty cents, took up his worn hat, and departed.

“Mos John, is that so?” asked Aunt Dice suddenly.

John Trevor smiled: “Hardly, Aunt Dice.”

“Thar! I tol' you a nigger couldn't larn.”

Nevertheless, Uncle Billy's daughter Sally earns a handsome living now teaching school, for she learned more thoroughly at Fisk University.

Among the Trevor children Aunt Dice particularly “favored” the eldest—a growing, winsome lassie, with riotous, dark curls, delicate scarlet lips, and clear gray eyes much like John Trevor's own, and much like him in a sunny, hopeful disposition, a love for all human kind which characterized her, and a tender regard for all dumb brutes. “You are like your father, chile—jes' as faithful,” Aunt Dice would say, when some unselfish action brought to mind the much beloved physician.

Like her father, Evelyn was fond of Aunt Dice, and spent with her many a well-remembered, happy hour. That Evelyn was a studious schoolgirl, Aunt Dice was pleased to notice; and many an extra task she served rather than disturb those hours of study. “Let the chile alone,” she would say, when Evelyn was called upon for some household duty. “Let her alone; she's got a book.” When Evelyn had arrived at the age of hero worship, she tried with painful earnestness to persuade her dusky colaborer to comprehend with her the virtues of her heroes. In this she was not so successful. Aunt Dice did not call those valorous heroes great. She had her own ideas of true valor and worth. Evelyn's histories puzzled her. She could not understand the ceaseless battling for power and earthly renown—the thirst for conquest, the crime and intrigue that stained the centuries in blood. War, to her, was a horrible butchery. She recognized no law of life but the mighty one of peace and good will—the law of forgiveness and loving-kindness. “Heavenly wisdom, chile, is better'n all that,” she said. “Sol'mon tol' 'bout it often 'nough in the Bible, but 'pears like the world ain't learnt it yit.”

Still Aunt Dice was interested; anything within the lids of a book interested her, however much or little she understood, or affected to ignore. “Git your book, Ev'lyn, an' read,” she said frequently.

On an occasion during an hour with her pipe, Aunt Dice's most contemplative mood, Evelyn with a Life of Napoleon in her lap, read to her eagerly, excitedly, portions of the life of the Corsican boy, the soldier, the general, the first consul, the emperor and conqueror, and the great prisoner at St. Helena. Aunt Dice smoked her pipe in stolid indifference.

“Now let me show you, Granny,” said Evelyn, reaching for her geography and pointing to pink and yellow patches on the map. “See how many countries—kingdoms—he conquered.”

“What'd he want wid so many?” asked Granny, shortly.

“Why,” said Evelyn, hesitatingly, “I suppose he wished to make a greater conquest than Charlemagne or Cæsar or Alexander, or any of those great men I read you about.”

“He'd a better let well 'nough alone, then he might not er ended in jail.”

Evelyn insisted: “But say he was great, Granny. Do you not think he was a great man?”

Aunt Dice would make no such concession. She turned to her pipe with the crushing answer: “What fur?”

John Trevor, an amused listener, took up from the table a small Bible. “Stop, Evelyn. You do not understand Aunt Dice. This is her Book of books, and this is her Hero of heroes,” he said, turning to the twenty-fourth Psalm, and reading in clear tones: “ ‘Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory.’ ”

Aunt Dice sat erect, her smoking pipe forgotten in her hand. There was a flash in her old eyes, a quiver about her lips as if they struggled for utterance. But the power of language she could not grasp. A silver tongue was not hers. Perhaps ere this the crippled speech of the grand old slave has found a voice for eloquent praise before her King of glory.

John Trevor was not mistaken. The world's Redeemer was her Hero, her King of glory. All others beside him were poor and blind and wretched. All the worship, the adulation within her heart she laid at his feet. Perhaps the love of the wonderful, so inherent in her race, found vent in the enthusiasm of her imagination, which vested in this one grand character all the attributes that power and beauty could suggest. To him nothing was impossible. He was the Mighty One of all the ages, everlasting, omnipotent, supreme. Lord of earth and sky, Conqueror of death and life, he rode the storm, he soared upon the wings of the wind, he healed the sick, he raised the dead. In him was centered all that loveliness could but dream. He published the doctrine of peace and forgiveness. He loved the poor, the blind, the weak. He was a refuge for the weary, the heavy-laden. He gave his life a ransom for the world. He died for her—for her. He was “altogether lovely,” this Lily of the valley, this bright and morning Star, the “chiefest among ten thousand,” this beautiful One; he was her Hero. The Bible truly was her Book of books. Of her Christian character, her great and simple faith was the prominent trait. She, who scorned an exaggeration, accepted the Bible literally. She rejected none of its mysterious figures, whose sublime conceptions she little understood. “The mountains skipped like rams, and the little hills like lambs,” she commented upon with a childlike faith, beautiful to behold: “If the Bible say so, it mus' be so.”

EVELYN TREVOR, always a favorite with Aunt Dice, spent many a pleasant hour at Riverside. It was often her privilege to visit the old homestead, and it was ever a time of joyous expectancy, when the blue hills of South Afton came into view, and the venerable old beech by the ford trailed its branches in the river with a gurgling welcome. Then the venturesome plunge into the clear freestone waters, the grating of wheels on the graveled drive, the rush and baying of the hounds at the great double gate, and the welcome figure of Aunt Dice coming across the lawn, her hands folded behind her, her bare head silvery in the sunlight, all were happy experiences not to be forgotten.

The charming mistress, the master, whose smile always gladdened the hearts of John Trevor's children, received her with affectionate regard. The old home, with the familiar surroundings of Anne Macy's childhood, had for Evelyn a peculiar interest. The bright, changeful river always charmed her. The slow-waving cedars of the cemetery impressed her solemnly. The house held its attractions: the cunning little rooms back of the galleries, painted in pure white; the pale yellow walls of the dining room, hung still with the portraits of Winfield Scott and Zachary Taylor; the ample fireplace and brass-knobbed andirons; the antique sideboard, which now did duty of a more substantial kind.

Evelyn spent hours by the quaint old bookcase, which contained volumes of history, heavy works of astronomy and chemistry, Latin grammars and books of mathematics, religious works, prayer books, poetry, and curious fiction. Evelyn handled them tenderly, reading on the fly leaves faintly legible but familiar family names. The old-fashioned paper on the parlor walls, an indistinct pattern of grayish, wavy lines and trailing roses; the great four-posted bedstead which stood in state in the best bedchamber, with its imposing canopy, a marvel of mahogany, silk, and lace, Evelyn felt could belong to no other so charmingly as to the pleasant old mansion at Riverside.

The dark “scuttle hole,” too, had a curious interest to her: within its gloomy recesses Aunt Dice had hidden the bedding and family valuables during the war. Now the old clock, which had been removed from the dining room, stood here, staring still, with a white, dismayed face, as when its tones had been rudely bushed under hostile hands.

War-time memories were growing indistinct to Evelyn; already the days of slavery seemed far away and dim. Her remembrances were those of a little child, but its saddest chapters she now recalled as an unpleasant dream; not only the day when her mother, brave Anne Trevor, coolly gathered her eggs under guard and pointed bayonet of a blue-coated negro soldier; the dark days when her father lay in Franklin jail, a prisoner of war; the sad farewells when all the slaves, weeping and wailing, departed forever; but the dull suspense of the gloomy time, the days of want and privation—the musty meal and sugarless parched rye coffee.

Other things Evelyn remembered not so unpleasantly. There were merry gatherings around the table, and merry comments on the uncertain flavor of uncertain dishes—the results of her mother's ludicrous attempts at cooking. There were exciting incidents of Yankee raids and rebel feasts at Vine Cottage. On one occasion she stood on the lawn with her mother and Julia, the nurse, watching with interest a squad of flying rebel horsemen and a dozen or more Yankees in full pursuit.

Anne Trevor's blue eyes flashed. Verily she had about her just then a look of Mos Sam himself.

“Open the gate, Julia; let them come in.”

Julia flew to open the gate. The rebels passed through with a yell of triumph.

“Leave the gate open!” shouted the leading Yankee.

“Shut it, Julia!”

“Leave it open!” he commanded, with raised pistol.

AUNT DICE was growing old. This she did not show in looks. Her eyes still held their fire, and her face had few wrinkles. There was no querulousness in tone or manner, no childishness in speech or action. The broad sweep of her brow was still smooth and placid, for she was never wont to corrugate her forehead in useless frowns. Her carefully brushed hair still had its silvery sheen, but her strength was perceptibly fading. Her low figure seemed a little more squat and short. Her rough hands trembled; her massive chin quivered and appeared to hang slightly, which gave the effect of a double chin; “a sign of age,” Aunt Dice said. She had little to do; came and went as she pleased, and spent much of her time visiting the sick and poor, with whom her name was a household word. At Riverside she was content. Her social visits were noticeably shorter, as if she would fain have hurried back to the cool quiet of her beloved home. “'Pears like I can't stay nowhar,” she would apologize. “I'm gittin' a fool 'bout home.” The children of her dear master she caressed and dandled upon her knees, or treated them occasionally to the wholesome discipline of their father before them, though with greater leniency, natural to her age. The eldest she would admonish frequently: “You've got Mos William's name, son; min' how you han'le it.”

John Trevor, the second, whose clear-cut face had the same proud, sweet look of his mother, Aunt Dice had sometimes to uphold when the imperious William proved too domineering. But the youngest, a tender, delicate girl, white and pure as a star-eyed daisy, Aunt Dice held upon her bosom with an anxious care, as if she feared that the angels had loved this one too well.

The days passed by, days that were blessed. Aunt Dice was reaping the fruits of her well-spent years. Among all her acquaintances she bore an honored name, and by her white friends was treated with distinguished courtesy. Wherever known she was never forgotten. Strangers remembered her. A missionary in far-off Brazil, who had spent a short week at Vine Cottage, wrote to John Trevor: “Remember me to Aunt Dice; I do not forget her.” It is needless to add that among all her “children” and “grandchildren” she was very highly honored and beloved.

In all her long life Aunt Dice had but one glimpse of the world and its way—an unfavorable one truly, within the walls of Nashville's courthouse. Summoned as a witness in a trial for murder—a strange, new duty for her seventy-four years—she prepared to answer the call, after many instructions from the master. She donned her best bonnet and gown.

“Don't get confused, Aunt Dice,” cautioned the mistress.

WITH all her indomitable will, and the sad fact that Mos Sam needed her sorely, the end of the year found Aunt Dice bedridden; but withal the year's end found her determined. She was to spend her last days with Charley— “Mos Sam had trubble ernuff.”

This was perhaps the second and last mistake of her life; but what fortitude and self-sacrifice this decision called for, none can judge. In spite of her long years of active service, Aunt Dice could not reconcile herself to be ministered unto by her white people. The sight of her master standing over her at night troubled her.

“What can I do for you, Aunt Dice?” he would ask, when the thought of her kept him awake.

“A little water, Mos Sam; then go to bed.”

That long, cold winter was a sad experience. The stricken master, with the care of his motherless ones, often sought her cabin at midnight hours to find her deserted by her hired nurse, keeping her uncomplaining watch alone. He built her fires, administered her medicine, brought her cool water from the great bluff spring—no longer the willful, imperious master, but the strangely gentle, patient nurse.

EVELYN TREVOR sat within her pleasant room at a boarding house in Nashville, holding in her hands a letter with a well-known signature, a sweet conceit: “Your dear father, John Trevor.”

Through the open window the February winds, drifting from the sunny uplands of Riverside, from the hillside playground of Vine Cottage farm, lifted the curls from her brow and stirred the ruffling of her dainty gown, whispering of the spring's glad coming. Her books lay unopened at her side. Nine o'clock would find her on her way to Nashville's Seminary for Young Ladies; still she sat looking far away over the western hills, thinking—thinking over the letter she held in her hands. The classic shades of Locust Grove Academy, the school of her earlier days, were to her now only dear memories. The free or public schools had crowded out this modest hall of learning, where the schoolmistress and principal moved with queenly grace among her satellites—assistant and music teachers.

Evelyn could not remember whenever this wise, firm mistress had failed in look or word to encourage her inquiring mind, or to smooth a difficult step. She could not remember during those four long terms a neglectful breach of courtesy from preceptress, or a failure to reward the smallest favor by a bow and smile or gentle thanks. Yet what a steely grip in those delicate hands! A look was a command; a slight tremor of her chin, an ominous warning; but her smile, lighting up the compass of her strong, intellectual face, was worth many an hour of laborious effort. Evelyn felt sometimes that she could have reached any height whither this smile might have led.

Not without danger of “cramming,” she peeped into science, pored over history; she read, composed, and copied; she transposed and analyzed sentences, reaching to Milton's intricate verse; but, sad to say, she stumbled continuously over the dull problems of her arithmetic. Nevertheless, duty was pleasant here. There were “sermons in stones”; flowers were ruthlessly pulled apart and dissected; the use of globes made her geography an easy study; and she learned that the stars were not mere golden things, studding the sky for glory and beauty.

To please her fancy more, the surrounding groves and lanes of the academy were peopled with airy forms from her own mythology. Flora smiled from the garden; Pomona showed her rosy face from the depths of the orchard; dolphins sported in the miniature lake; while farther down a charming bit of landscape, where the streamlet gurgled over rocks and eddied into pools, there was—ah yes!—Scylla and Charybdis. Over the brow of the hill the great god Pan himself, not dead—oh no!—played his pipe where the wild grapes grew.

But this February morning Evelyn was not dreaming of the well-remembered haunts of Locust Grove Academy, nor was she longing for the dewy dells of her country home; but her thoughts were far beyond the western horizon, where the rippling waters of dear South Afton caressed the rugged bluffs at Riverside. In a cabin door she saw a short, squat figure; a homely face, with kind old eyes that looked a sad good-by at parting.

“Now, 'member, chile,” Aunt Dice had said, “tain't all to larn in schoolin' an' books. Ef yo' is a lady, yo'll go with ladies, an' gen'l'muns.”

These words were useful to Evelyn. She had not forgotten. She read her father's letter, her eyes growing dim over the words, “Look for Aunt Dice, and bring her home; we think she is in distress.”

All day at school the babbling of sweet South Afton sounded in Evelyn's ears; all day a dark, homely face smiled from the pages of her book. At her earliest hour she started on her quest, only to return at nightfall weary and disappointed.

Of Aunt Dice's granddaughters, all of whom had some years before removed to Nashville, Eliza was the only one living. Pet—poor spoiled Pet—had indulged her love of finery to her heart's content at the “second-hand” stores, but died all too soon for the “car'idge an' hosses,” and the “shoes wid gol' heels.” Evelyn had seen Julia once only. When passing down the street with a friend she heard a frantic voice calling behind her, “Miss Ev'lyn, O Miss Ev'lyn!” Evelyn turned in surprise to see Julia—no longer the comely Julia—kneeling at her feet, gathering up the skirt of her gown and kissing it passionately. Julia, too, was soon laid away in the colored burying ground at Mt. Ararat. Eliza was still in Nashville; but where, Evelyn could not tell, owing to the varying life of the colored poor.

Next day after school hours Evelyn resumed her search from street to street, tracing painfully the whereabouts of the changeful, flitting Charley. He had gone “furder up town”—on “t'other side o' the riber”; and lastly, “He ain't here; he's moved som'r's 'long o' Front street.”

On the third day's search Evelyn passed down an ill-smelling alley, and knocked at the grimy door of a basement room. Entering, she noticed a group of noisy, dirty children; recognized slowly the wrinkled remnant of Charley's wife, Maria; then her quick eyes saw in the opposite corner a narrow iron bedstead, which she knew to be Aunt Dice's—on which the honored servant of Riverside had been wont to take her afternoon naps. Passing quickly to the dark corner, she knelt by the bedside, where lay a shrunken figure, who passed one withered arm around Evelyn's neck, while the bed shook with her silent grief.

“Dear Granny!” Words were weak. Evelyn could only hold the rough, fevered hand, or pass her cool fingers over the throbbing temples.

Aunt Dice grew quiet at length: “How's Mos Sam?”

“He was well when we heard from him last—”

“Mos John an' Miss Anne?”

“All well, dear Granny; we only want you.”

Aunt Dice lay silent for awhile. Evelyn stroked her hand, which twitched nervously.

“Ev'lyn, tell Mos Sam—not to sen' me—any mo' money.”

Evelyn hesitated. She understood the old reserve. Aunt Dice's private griefs had always been respected, but surely in her helpless old age she might share her griefs for once. “Tell me why, Granny. Tell me why.”

“I never see—de money.”

“Granny, never mind the money. I have come for you. You shall go home with me at the close of the week. That is day after to-morrow. They are waiting for you at home. You will come?” pleaded Evelyn.

Aunt Dice lifted her face with a new interest. She raised herself on her elbow. “It mus' be lookin' fresh an' cool at Mos John's. Yes, I'll go—ef I kin.” She looked toward the dark doorway. “Ain't the grass comin' out?”

“Yes, Granny; spring is waiting for you at home, at dear Vine Cottage.”

“Yes, chile.” Eternal spring was waiting for her. Evelyn sank, sobbing, by her bed. Aunt Dice put out her thin, wrinkled hand. “Don't, Ev'lyn, don't take on so. Yo' Granny is nuther afeard ter die nur ter live. I'm mo' comf'ble than ye knows of,” she continued. “Riah does de bes' she knows how, an' Liza brings me things ter eat, an' keeps my bed clean.”

“But you will go with me, Granny?” asked Evelyn, opening her basket and piling her fruit, rolls, and coffee about the bed.

Aunt Dice turned restlessly, and passed one hand wearily over her face. “Mebbe so, Ev'lyn—ef nuthin' don't happen.”

“What can happen?” asked Evelyn, cheerfully. “You will get well at Vine Cottage, with dear mother and the girls to nurse you.” After a fond good-by, she closed the door and hastened homeward.

Next day at school it was not the babbling of the river in her ears; not the vision of a stout, low figure in a cabin door; but a dark, shrunken form in a dark corner beckoned to her sadly.

On the following Saturday Evelyn stood again at the basement door, staring blankly at the deserted room. Charley had flown again, no one knew whither. Evelyn turned away in sore disappointment. What was the meaning of Aunt Dice's reticence about the “money,” her hesitating acceptance of a home at Vine Cottage? Could it be—oh no, surely it could not be—that Charley used her monthly pittance, and smuggled her sick body back and forth across the city, that no communication pass between her and her friends!

Another search was instituted. There was a season of suspense, an unavoidable delay of several weeks, when John Trevor found Eliza, and learned that Aunt Dice had passed away at Eliza's home, and not with Charley, for whom she had borne so much.

Just here, while the pen may be ready to censure, the heart prompts a feeling of leniency for the wayward, mistaken Charley. That he was Aunt Dice's son precludes a hasty judgment. Were she here to plead for him, she would perhaps find some trait of character worthy of her son; some charm of manner or person, some redeeming quality that others know not of. That he loved her, she did not doubt. He was her own, her son. Let Charley's failings be forgotten, now that he sleeps quietly at last by his mother's side, after the “fitful fever” of his erring but unfortunate life.

Aunt Dice was tended with care and devotion by faithful Eliza, who secured the privilege by renouncing all claim to her grandmother's possessions. Aunt Dice died in peace. She was laid away in her plain coffin, robed in her black silk gown, with the lace shawl pinned about her; and in the early spring, when the golden candlesticks were aflame around Cæsar's grave, when the laughing waters of her native river danced and rippled in the spring sunshine, Aunt Dice, the faithful slave, the beloved servant, was lowered into her grave on a bleak slope of Mt. Ararat, within sound of the city's roar and tumult.

It was also learned that Aunt Dice was very patient through all the dreary days of her illness, very quiet and “peaceful-like,” waiting in simple faith the time of her departure; for the reunion with those who had gone before, whom she had loved and served so faithfully. But a fairer One she saw, perhaps, than any of earth she had known, when in her dying moments she lifted a radiant face and said, “Glory—glo-r-y!”