“Lawd he’p him not to wake up den, ’ca’se he ol’, but we needs him. I do’ know whut I’d do ef I didn’t have Mas’ Bob to wuk fu’. You got ol’ Miss Randolph’s present ready fu’ him?” “Co’se I has. I done made him somep’n’ diffunt dis yeah.” “Made him somep’n’ diffunt—whut you say, Lize?” exclaimed the old man, laying his knife and fork on his plate and looking up at his wife with wide-open eyes. “You ain’t gwine change afteh all dese yeahs?” “Yes. I jes’ pintly had to. It’s been de same thing now fu’ mo’ ’n twenty yeahs.” “Whut you done made fu’ him?” “I’s made him a comfo’t to go roun’ his naik.” “But, Lize, ol’ Miss Cla’indy allus sont him gloves knit wif huh own han’. Ain’t you feared Mas’ Estridge gwine to ’spect?” “No, he ain’t gwine to ’spect. He don’t tek no notice o’ nuffin’, an’ he jes’ pintly had to have dat comfo’t fu’ his naik, ’ca’se he boun’ to go out in de col’ sometime er ruther an’ he got plenty gloves.” “I’s feared,” said the old man, sententiously, “I’s mighty feared. I wouldn’t have Mastah know we been doin’ fu’ him an’ a-sendin’ him dese presents all dis time fu’ nuffin’ in de worl’. It ’u’d hu’t him mighty bad.” “He ain’t foun’ out all dese yeahs, an’ he ain’t gwine fin’ out now.” The old man shook his head dubiously, and ate the rest of his meal in silence. It was a beautiful Christmas morning as he wended his way across the lawn to his old master’s room, bearing the tray of breakfast things and “ol’ Miss Randolph’s present,”—a heavy home-made scarf. The air was full of frosty brightness. Ike was happy, for the frost had turned the persimmons. The ’possums had gorged themselves, and he had one of the fattest of them for his Christmas dinner. Colonel Estridge was sitting in his old place by the window. He crumbled an old yellow envelope in his hand as Ike came in and set the things down. It looked like the letter which had brought the news of young Robert Estridge’s loss, but it could not be, for the old man sitting there had forgotten that and was expecting the son home on that day. Ike took the comforter to his master, and began in the old way: “Miss Cla’iny Randolph mek huh comperments to you, Mas’ Bob, an’ say—” But his master had turned and was looking him square in the face, and something in the look checked his flow of words. Colonel Estridge did not extend his hand to take the gift. “Clarinda Randolph,” he said, “always sends me gloves.” His tone was not angry, but it was cold and sorrowful. “Lay it down,” he went on more kindly and pointing to the comforter, “and you may go now. I will get whatever I want from the table.” Ike did not dare to demur. He slipped away, embarrassed and distressed. “Wha’ ’d I tell you?” he asked Lize, as soon as he reached the cabin. “I believe he done woke up.” But the old woman could only mourn and wring her hands.