Dokesbury sighed. Here indeed was virgin soil for his ministerial labours. His spirits were not materially raised when, some time later, he came in sight of the house which was to be his abode. To be sure, it was better than most of the houses which he had seen in the Negro part of Mt. Hope; but even at that it was far from being good or comfortable-looking. It was small and mean in appearance. The weather boarding was broken, and in some places entirely fallen away, showing the great unhewn logs beneath; while off the boards that remained the whitewash had peeled in scrofulous spots. The minister’s guide went up to the closed door, and rapped loudly with a heavy stick. “G’ ’way f’om dah, an’ quit you’ foolin’,” came in a large voice from within. The guide grinned, and rapped again. There was a sound of shuffling feet and the pushing back of a chair, and then the same voice saying: “I bet I’ll mek you git away f’om dat do’.” “Dat’s A’nt Ca’line,” the guide said, and laughed. The door was flung back as quickly as its worn hinges and sagging bottom would allow, and a large body surmounted by a face like a big round full moon presented itself in the opening. A broomstick showed itself aggressively in one fat shiny hand. “It’s you, Tom Scott, is it—you trif’nin’—” and then, catching sight of the stranger, her whole manner changed, and she dropped the broomstick with an embarrassed “’Scuse me, suh.” Tom chuckled all over as he said, “A’nt Ca’line, dis is yo’ new preachah.” The big black face lighted up with a broad smile as the old woman extended her hand and enveloped that of the young minister’s. “Come in,” she said. “I’s mighty glad to see you—that no-’count Tom come put’ nigh mekin’ me ’spose myse’f.” Then turning to Tom, she exclaimed with good-natured severity, “An’ you go ’long, you scoun’ll you!” The preacher entered the cabin—it was hardly more—and seated himself in the rush-bottomed chair which A’nt Ca’line had been industriously polishing with her apron. “An’ now, Brothah—” “Dokesbury,” supplemented the young man. “Brothah Dokesbury, I jes’ want you to mek yo’se’f at home right erway. I know you ain’t use to ouah ways down hyeah; but you jes’ got to set in an’ git ust to ’em. You mus’n’t feel bad ef things don’t go yo’ way f’om de ve’y fust. Have you got a mammy?” The question was very abrupt, and a lump suddenly jumped up in Dokesbury’s throat and pushed the water into his eyes. He did have a mother away back there at home. She was all alone, and he was her heart and the hope of her life. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve got a little mother up there in Ohio.” “Well, I’s gwine to be yo’ mothah down hyeah; dat is, ef I ain’t too rough an’ common fu’ you.” “Hush!” exclaimed the preacher, and he got up and took the old lady’s hand in both of his own. “You shall be my mother down here; you shall help me, as you have done to-day. I feel better already.”