“‘I know Longwood in California,’ says Jim, ‘as well as I know my own hand. I was there only last fall. ’Tisn’t a very big place, an’ I knowed every one as lives there. I knowed Samuel Johnson well--he come to chapel reg’lar. I reckon,’ says he, ‘the name o’ the minister as recommended him was Ebenezer Strong.’ “‘E-es,’ says Tamsine, ‘that’s the name. The Reverend Ebenezer Strong.’ “‘That’s it,’ shouts Jim. ‘Why, he’s a coloured man hisself--he wouldn’t be likely to find fault wi’ the man for bein’ a nigger. You mustn’t ha’ no more to do wi’ him, my girl. ’Twas a mercy I met ye, and could warn ye in time.’ “‘Oh! but what can I do?’ cries the poor maid, a-sobbin’ fit to break her heart. ‘There’s not a bit o’ use in my goin’ back. None of ’em would believe the tale. My uncle would make me go all the same, I know.’ “‘E-es, to be sure,’ says Maria Robbins, looking at Jim very sour-like; ‘’tisn’t very likely as Mr. Meadway ’ud be put off by a chance tale from a stranger. There he’ve a-been at the expense o’ gettin’ everthin’ ready for the maid, and this ’ere gentleman what writes so straightforward an’ sends the money so handsome, may be some quite other Mr. Johnson. I mind,’ says Maria, ‘the time o’ the Crimee War, Miss Old went into deep black for some chap called John Old, what got killed out abroad, and what she reckoned was her brother, an’ ’twasn’t him at all.’ “‘Samuel Johnson, o’ Longwood, is a nigger,’ cries Jim, smacking his hands together. ‘His grandfather was a slave. He belonged to some queer old gentleman what gave ’en the name to start wi’, ’cause ’twas the name of some old ancient chap what wrote a book or some such thing; an’ this chap was named for him Samuel Johnson too. There ain’t no mistake, you bet,’ says he. “Well, Tamsine was a-cryin’ and a-shakin’ all over like a aspen leaf all this time; and when Maria was advisin’ her to be sensible an’ not hearken to them sort of idle tales, I thought she’d ha’ had a fit. I could ha’ laughed any other time to hear wold Maria, as was so dead again’ the girl marryin’ when she thought ’twas a nice match, an’ now she was all for her doin’ it, though she seed how skeart the poor maid was. Mrs. Mayne had a softer heart. “‘If this be really true, Jan,’ she says, lookin’ at I, ‘it do seem a pity for the maid to go any forrarder. Better for her to stay at home and go to sarvice,’ says she. ‘There, Tamsine, give over cryin’. Nobody can force ye to go to America or to take up wi’ this ’ere nigger against your will. Go back an’ tell your uncle what you’ve a-heard, an’ let him keep ye a bit longer till ye’ve a-got a situation.’ “‘Oh, I dursn’t go back,’ says poor Tamsine. An’ then Jim reaches towards her and takes her by the hand again.