“I knowed you would;” and the old face beamed on the young one. “An’ now jes’ go out de do’ dah an’ wash yo’ face. Dey’s a pan an’ soap an’ watah right dah, an’ hyeah’s a towel; den you kin go right into yo’ room, fu’ I knows you want to be erlone fu’ a while. I’ll fix yo’ suppah while you rests.” He did as he was bidden. On a rough bench outside the door, he found a basin and a bucket of water with a tin dipper in it. To one side, in a broken saucer, lay a piece of coarse soap. The facilities for copious ablutions were not abundant, but one thing the minister noted with pleasure: the towel, which was rough and hurt his skin, was, nevertheless, scrupulously clean. He went to his room feeling fresher and better, and although he found the place little and dark and warm, it too was clean, and a sense of its homeness began to take possession of him. The room was off the main living-room into which he had been first ushered. It had one small window that opened out on a fairly neat yard. A table with a chair before it stood beside the window, and across the room—if the three feet of space which intervened could be called “across”—stood the little bed with its dark calico quilt and white pillows. There was no carpet on the floor, and the absence of a washstand indicated very plainly that the occupant was expected to wash outside. The young minister knelt for a few minutes beside the bed, and then rising cast himself into the chair to rest. It was possibly half an hour later when his partial nap was broken in upon by the sound of a gruff voice from without saying, “He’s hyeah, is he—oomph! Well, what’s he ac’ lak? Want us to git down on ouah knees an’ crawl to him? If he do, I reckon he’ll fin’ dat Mt. Hope ain’t de place fo’ him.” The minister did not hear the answer, which was in a low voice and came, he conjectured, from Aunt ‘Ca’line’; but the gruff voice subsided, and there was the sound of footsteps going out of the room. A tap came on the preacher’s door, and he opened it to the old woman. She smiled reassuringly. “Dat ’uz my ol’ man,” she said. “I sont him out to git some wood, so ’s I’d have time to post you. Don’t you mind him; he’s lots mo’ ba’k dan bite. He’s one o’ dese little yaller men, an’ you know dey kin be powahful contra’y when dey sets dey hai’d to it. But jes’ you treat him nice an’ don’t let on, an’ I’ll be boun’ you’ll bring him erroun’ in little er no time.” The Rev. Mr. Dokesbury received this advice with some misgiving. Albeit he had assumed his pleasantest manner when, after his return to the living-room, the little “yaller” man came through the door with his bundle of wood. He responded cordially to Aunt Caroline’s, “Dis is my husband, Brothah Dokesbury,” and heartily shook his host’s reluctant hand. “I hope I find you well, Brother Gray,” he said. “Moder’t, jes’ moder’t,” was the answer.