“I do’ want no fortune ner nothin’ lak dat. What I wants is a little mo’ money—’cause—’cause I got a boy; he allus been a good boy to me an’ tuk keer o’ me, but he thought he would do bettah out West, so he went out dere, an’ fu’ a while he got along all right an’ sent me money reg’lar. Den he took down sick an’ got out o’ work. It was ha’d fu’ me to git along ’dout his he’p, ’cause I’s old. But dat ain’t what hu’ts me. I don’ keer nuffin’ ’bout myse’f. I’s willin’ to sta’ve ef I could jes’ sen’ fu’ dat boy an’ bring him home so’s I could nuss him. Dat’s de reason I’s a-’vestin’ dis money.” Solomon Ruggles fingered the bills nervously. “You know when a boy’s sick dey ain’t nobidy kin nuss lak his own mothah kin, fu’ she nussed him when he was a baby; he’s pa’t o’ huh, an’ she knows his natur’. Yo’ mothah livin’, Mistah Ruggles?” “Yes, ’way down South—she’s ve’y ol’.” “I reckon some o’ us ol’ folks does live too long past dey times.” “No, you don’t; you couldn’t. I wish to God the world was full of jest sich ol’ people as you an’ my mothah is.” “Bless you, honey, I laks to hyeah you talk dat way ’bout yo’ mammy. I ain’ ’fred to trus’ my money wif no man dat knows how to ’spect his mothah.” The old woman rose to go. Ruggles followed her to the door. He was trembling with some emotion. He shook the investor warmly by the hand as he bade her good-bye. “I shall do the ve’y bes’ I kin fu’ you,” he said. “How soon kin I hyeah ’bout it?” “I’ve took yo’ address, an’ you kin expect to hyeah from me in a week’s time—that’s sooner than we do anything fu’ most of ouah customers.” “Thanky, sir, fu’ the favour; thanky, an’ good-bye, Mistah Ruggles.” The head of the company went in and sat for a long time dreaming over his table. A week later an angry crowd of coloured investors stood outside the office of the Coloured Improvement Company. The office was closed to all business, and diligent search failed to reveal the whereabouts of Mr. Solomon Ruggles. The investors knew themselves to be the victims of a wily swindler, and they were furious. Dire imprecations were hurled at the head of the defaulting promoter. But, as the throng was spending its breath in vain anger, an old woman with smiling face worked her way through them toward the door. “Let me th’oo,” she said; “I want to fin’ Mistah Ruggles.” “Yes, all of us do. Has he cheated you, too, Auntie?” “Cheated me? What’s de matter wif you, man? I put fi’ dollahs in hyeah las’ week, an’ look at dat!” The old woman waved some bills in the air and a letter with them. Some one took it from her hand and read:— DEAR MRS. SMITH,—I am glad to say that yore int’rust ’cumulated faster than usu’l, so I kan inklose you heerwith $15. I am sorry I shall not see you again, az I am kalled away on bizness. Very respectably yores, S. RUGGLES.