Lying in the sun, stone-blind, was Uncle John. He raised his head and listened. "Mistuh, fuh Gawd's sake, please do suppin fuh me!" "Old man, why are you here?" "Lemme hear dat voice again!" "Uncle John!" "Bless de Lawd, Marster! you done come. Marster, a 'oman robbed me uf all I had an' den th'owed me out. Fuh Gawd's sake, take me home!" "I will have you cared for tonight, and tomorrow I will come in the wagon for you." "Lawd, Marster, I sho is glad I gwine home! I kin res' easy in my min', now I _know_ I gwine home!" Mr. Hill returned to the Provost: "I shall come or send for the old man tomorrow," he said. "Meanwhile, he must be cared for." The Provost was indifferent. This was one of many cases. "If you do not provide food and shelter for that negro," he was sharply assured, "I shall report you to the authorities at Washington." The Provost promised and sent two orderlies to attend to the matter. Next morning the master was back. The old man was dead. He had been put in the scale-house, an open shed. There, instead of in his old home surrounded by friends who loved him, Uncle John had breathed his last. From many other stories, companions in pathos, I choose Mammy Lisbeth's. Her son went with the Yankee army. She grieved for him till her mistress' heart ached. The mistress returned one day from a visit to find Lisbeth much excited. "Law, Miss, I done hyerd f'om my chile!" "How, Mammy?" "A Yankee soldier come by an' I ax 'im is he seed my son whar he been goin' 'long? An' I tell 'im all 'bout how my chile look. An' he say he done been seen 'im. An' I say, 'Law, mister, ain't my chile gwi come home?' An' he gimme de answer: 'He can't come ef he ain' got no money.' An' I answer, 'Law, marster, I got a fi'-dollar gol' piece my ole miss dat's done dade gimme long time ago. Does you know any safe passin'?' An' he answer, jes ez kin', how he gwine datter way hisse'f, an' he'll kyar it. I run in de house an' got dat fi'-dollar gol' piece an' gi' to 'im. An' now my chile's comin' home, Miss! my chile's comin' home! He say, 'In 'bout two weeks, you go to de kyars evvy day an' look fuh im.'" Her mistress had not the heart to tell her the man had robbed her. Never before had a white man robbed her; it was second nature to trust the white face. "It is heart-breaking," her mistress wrote, "to see how she watches for him. She is at the depot every day, scanning the face of every coloured passenger getting off. I've been to the Bureau making inquiries. The Agent says if he could catch the rascal, the robber, he would string him up by the thumbs, but her description fits any strolling private. He says: 'Any woman who would trust a stranger so with her money deserves to be fooled. I wouldn't trouble about it, Madam!' Yankees do not understand our coloured people and us. How can I help being troubled by anything that troubles Mammy Lisbeth?"