"Arter chu'ch, 'stid o' folks stoppin' ter speak wid Miss Letty, dey jes' went by her wid a nod an' a scowl. Miss Letty she had a sperrit, ez Marse Page say; she smile an' keep on talkin' wid de cap'n, an' let him walk home wid her. Tubal he had done gone in de woods ter play de fiddle--'kase dat sinner acshilly play de fiddle Sunday same ez week days--he seen 'em walkin' 'long home, an' he see de cap'n when he tooken Miss Letty han' an' say, 'Can you bear that treatment fer me?' An' Miss Letty she say, 'Yes, and a great deal more.' Ef you will believe dis nigger, Miss Letty she marry dat cap'n! She did, fer a fac'! She married him, sartin an' sho! She marry him 'fo' de summer wuz out. Dey went away, an' dey want ter take Tubal wid 'em, but Tubal he say naw, he c'yarn leave Marse Page all by hisse'f in de graveyard, an' ef he could jes' live on at de overseer's house, an' had he fiddle an' sumpin' ter eat, he wus all right. Miss Letty fix fer him ter stay, an' de' wuz a little g'yarden patch fer him; but Tubal he warn' never no 'count ter wuk; he wuz too much uv a artis', de cap'n say. So arter dey wuz married an' gone, Tubal useter take he fiddle an' go an' set in de sun by Marse Page grave, an' play ter him, an' dat nigger had de s'prisin' owdaciousness ter play hymn tunes on de fiddle, like 'Roll, Jordan, roll,' an' 'Dem Golden Slippers.' Dem wuz fer hisse'f, he say, but de reels an' jigs wuz fer Marse Page, 'kase he allers like dat sort o' music. An' it seem ter me like Tubal play mo' like de birds ev'y day; when he play a reel, it wuz like de win' sweepin' ober de wheat fiel', er de water in de mill-race po'in' ober de dam. Dat was in de fall, but todes winter Tubal cotch de rheumatiz, an' he couldn't git outen de house, an' he finger-j'ints got kinder rusty, an' he couldn' play no mo'. It sut'ny wuz pitiful ter see him settin' wid de fiddle on he knee an' he c'yarn play it. He wuz mighty po'ly, an' he keep on sayin' he ain' gwi' live long. When de spring come he got outen de house when it was sunshiny, an' he useter creep wid he fiddle ter de graveyard, but he couldn' hardly walk. An' one day we had done miss him, but it wuz sunshiny, so we knowed he was somewhar 'bout dat graveyard; we-all went ter look fer him, an' d'yar, layin' on Marse Page grave, wuz Tubal wid he fiddle. He wuz done dade. "He had ax us 'fo' dat ter bury him an' de fiddle close by Marse Page, 'kase Miss Letty had promise him he could be laid in de white folks' buryin' groun', an' he wuz laid right d'yar. He look mighty natchel in de coffin wid he fiddle an' he bow by him. So we-all buried Tubal, an' I 'ain' never see sech a fiddler sence." PRISCILLA.