After admonishing the hope of his years as to the impropriety of applying such a term to an unfortunate, the father rose and sought the place where the “straggler” awaited him. Nelse’s sympathetic heart throbbed with pity at the sight that met his eye. The “straggler,” a “thing of shreds and patches,” was a man about his own age, nearing fifty; but what a contrast he was to the well-preserved, well-clothed black man! His gray hair straggled carelessly about his sunken temples, and the face beneath it was thin and emaciated. The hands that pulled at the fringe of the ragged coat were small and bony. But both the face and the hands were clean, and there was an open look in the bold, dark eye. In strong contrast, too, with his appearance was the firm, well-modulated voice, somewhat roughened by exposure, in which he said, “I am very hungry; will you give me something to eat?” It was a voice that might have spoken with authority. There was none of the beggar’s whine in it. It was clear and straightforward; and the man spoke the simple sentence almost as if it had been a protest against his sad condition. “Jes’ set down on the step an’ git cool,” answered Nelse, “an’ I’ll have something put on the table.” The stranger silently did as he was bidden, and his host turned into the house. Eliza Hatton had been quietly watching proceedings, and as her husband entered the kitchen she said, “Look a-here, Nelse, you shorely ain’t a-goin’ to have that tramp in the kitchen a-settin’ up to the table?” “Why, course,” said Nelse; “he’s human, ain’t he?” “That don’t make no difference. I bet none of these white folks round here would do it.” “That ain’t none of my business,” answered her husband. “I believe in every person doin’ their own duty. Put somethin’ down on the table; the man’s hungry. An’ don’t never git stuck up, ’Lizy; you don’t know what our children have got to come to.” Nelse Hatton was a man of few words; but there was a positive manner about him at times that admitted of neither argument nor resistance. His wife did as she was bidden, and then swept out in the majesty of wounded dignity, as the tramp was ushered in and seated before the table whose immaculate white cloth she had been prudent enough to change for a red one. The man ate as if he were hungry, but always as if he were a hungry gentleman. There was something in his manner that impressed Nelse that he was not feeding a common tramp as he sat and looked at his visitor in polite curiosity. After a somewhat continued silence he addressed the man: “Why don’t you go to your own people when you’re hungry instead of coming to us coloured folks?” There was no reproof in his tone, only inquiry. The stranger’s eyes flashed suddenly.