“Well, I do say, Sis’ Ca’line, dem two boys o’ ourn done sot dis town on fiah.” “What now, Sis’ Lizy?” “Why, evah sence ’Lias tuk it into his haid to be a cyahpenter an’ Jim ’cided to go ’long an’ lu’n to be a blacksmif, some o’ dese hyeah othah young people’s been tryin’ to do somep’n’.” “All dey wanted was a staht.” “Well, now will you b’lieve me, dat no-’count Tom Johnson done opened a fish sto’, an’ he has de boys an’ men bring him dey fish all de time. He give ’em a little somep’n’ fu’ dey ketch, den he go sell ’em to de white folks.” “Lawd, how long!” “An’ what you think he say?” “I do’ know, sis’.” “He say ez soon ’z he git money enough, he gwine to dat school whah ’Lias an’ Jim gone an’ lu’n to fahm scientific.” “Bless de Lawd! Well, ’um, I don’ put nothin’ pas’ de young folks now.” Mt. Hope had at last awakened. Something had come to her to which she might aspire,—something that she could understand and reach. She was not soaring, but she was rising above the degradation in which Harold Dokesbury had found her. And for her and him the ordeal had passed. THE COLONEL’S AWAKENING THE COLONEL’S AWAKENING It was the morning before Christmas. The cold winter sunlight fell brightly through the window into a small room where an old man was sitting. The room, now bare and cheerless, still retained evidences of having once been the abode of refinement and luxury. It was the one open chamber of many in a great rambling old Virginia house, which in its time had been one of the proudest in the county. But it had been in the path of the hurricane of war, and had been shorn of its glory as a tree is stripped of its foliage. Now, like the bare tree, dismantled, it remained, and this one old man, with the aristocratic face, clung to it like the last leaf. He did not turn his head when an ancient serving-man came in and began laying the things for breakfast. After a while the servant spoke: “I got a monst’ous fine breakfus’ fu’ you dis mo’nin’, Mas’ Estridge. I got fresh aigs, an’ beat biscuits, an Lize done fried you a young chicken dat’ll sholy mek yo’ mouf worter.” “Thank you, Ike, thank you,” was the dignified response. “Lize is a likely girl, and she’s improving in her cooking greatly.” “Yes, Mas’ Estridge, she sho is a mighty fine ooman.” “And you’re not a bad servant yourself, Ike,” the old man went on, with an air of youthful playfulness that ill accorded with his aged face. “I expect some day you’ll be coming around asking me to let you marry Lize, eh! What have you got to say to that?” “I reckon dat’s right, mastah, I reckon dat’s mighty nigh right.” “Well, we shall see about it when the time comes; we shall see about it.”