"Upchurch is er smart man, ef I do say it," his wife would sometimes proudly remark. "When me an’ him married we ’lowed we’d help one ernuther, an’ mebby we’d git helped; an’ so we did, fer Providence always helps them that helps themselves." Peggy Upchurch was a good woman, and noted among her neighbors and friends for her readiness to visit the sick and the sorrowful. She was a useful woman in her narrow sphere, a strict member of Ebenezer Baptist Church, and while she did not consider it right "fer wimmin to speak out in meetin’," she did a good deal of missionary work quietly. She rose and glanced around to see if everything had been put in proper order, then sat down again, with her snuff-box and her knitting on her lap. The house was a double log-house—that is, two large rooms with a wide, open entry between, and a loft above. In the furnishing of those rooms, the chief consideration seemed to have been beds—high feather beds, with blue and white checked foot-curtains concealing the unpainted pine posts of the bedsteads, and elaborately fringed "double-wove" counterpanes spread over them. Those beds were the pride of Mrs. Upchurch’s heart. "I raised them feathers myself, an’ I know they er fresh ernough fer the President ter sleep on." Doors stood wide open, letting in sunshine and sweet flowers’ scents, and George Washington looked down from his rusty frame with a gracious unbending of his dignity. A few scrubby oaks shaded the clean-swept yard, and a honeysuckle vine had been trained to climb and spread itself over the rough logs of the house. A fine rose-bush bloomed beside the gate, and there were beds of larkspur, pinks, and sweet-williams in the sunnier spots. It was a home the counterpart of which may be found in almost any portion of Georgia, bare and rather lonely looking, but clean and healthy, and to the householders acceptable as a kingly palace. It appeared a very haven of rest and peace to the tired, dusty tramp toiling up the wide, hot road. His eyes wandered from object to object as though the place was not unfamiliar to him, and a slight quiver of emotion crossed his features when that roving glance fell on Mrs. Upchurch. He carried a small bundle hanging from the end of a knotted hickory stick over his right shoulder, and he walked in a halting, uneven way. He turned from the road and stopped at the gate. "Good-evenin’, ma’am." "Good-evenin’, sir," said Mrs. Upchurch, looking at him with some curiosity. He opened the gate. "May I come in an’ git er drink er water? Walkin’ is pow’ful hot work." "Ter be shore; jes’ walk right in an’ take er seat an’ rest yerself; you look plum’ fagged out," said the hospitable woman, rising and placing a chair out in the entry for him.