Crazy Joe had of late divided his time between the plantation and the cabin at the foot of Twin Mountains. Uncle Dan, when he entered the army, tried to induce Joe to desert the place altogether, but this he refused to do, always declaring he must have the house of his Uncle Esau ready at his coming. Irene could discover that Joe's companion was a negro, a man past the middle age of life, of strong frame and strongly marked features. It was with a thrill of astonishment that she heard these words. "When do you remember seeing your father last?" "'Twas when my father dwelt in a distant land. I was much beloved of my father, for I was the sun of his old age." "Oh, don't talk such nonsense! What was your father's name?" "Jacob, my father was Jacob, the son of Isaac." "No, he wasn't," replied the man. "Try and think if your father didn't have another name than Jacob." The poor fellow for a moment puzzled his brain and then said slowly: "No, it could not be otherwise. Joseph was the son of Jacob, and Jacob the son of Isaac, and Isaac the son of Abraham; so you see my father must have been Jacob. Joseph was sold into bondage and carried into Egypt, and I am Joseph, so my father must have been Jacob." "Can't you recollect that your father had another name?" "No, he never had any other name but Jacob, the son of Isaac." "Your father's name was Henry," said the man. "Now don't you remember that his Christian name was Henry?" The moonlight fell full on Joe's troubled face, and Irene thought she could discover a strange expression cross it, as though a stream of memory's sunshine had suddenly been let in on his long clouded mind, but a moment after it was passed, and he said: "No, it must have been Jacob, and if Jacob is not my father, my father must be dead. The famine has been very sore in the land of Canaan." "There has been no famine in the land where your father dwells," said the man, earnestly. "Your father never knew a famine, never knew want or care. He was a reckless, passionate man, but at times he was gentle and kind." "My father, Jacob, was always good and kind," said Joe, thoughtfully. "Your father's name was not Jacob," said the man, evidently annoyed and puzzled. "Your father's name was Henry--" Irene listened with strained attention to hear the last name, but the voice of the speaker was lowered, so that she failed to catch it. "Now," went on the stranger, "try and remember, while I tell you about your father and your home. Your father was a handsome man, with dark hair and eyes and heavy jet black whiskers. Do you not remember the home of your childhood--a large, brown stone mansion, surrounded with palmetto trees, and orange groves, and cane brakes? Do you not remember the vast fields of cotton and rice and sugar-cane, with negroes working in them, and your father riding about in his carriage with you by his side? Can't you remember your mother? Can't you remember the tiny boats she made for you to float on the lake?"