"He's the nigger that roosted on top of my house," said Mrs. Felix, bustling around and putting a kettle of water on the fire. "Well, it's a roundabout way to pay for his lodging, but it's the best he could do, I reckon. Now, don't you worry yourself, George; in ten minutes you'll be snug in bed, and then you'll drink a cup of composition tea, and to-morrow morning you'll have forgotten all about trying to make a spring branch out of Murder Creek." As the successful mistress of a household, Mrs. Kendrick knew precisely what was necessary to be done. There was no hitch in her system, no delay in her methods, and no disputing her remedies. George Denham was ordered to bed as if he had been a child; and though the "composition" tea was hot in the month and bitter to the palate, it was useless to protest against it. As a consequence of all this, the young man was soon in the land of dreams. When everything was quiet, Kitty prepared a very substantial lunch. Then, calling her little brother Felix, she went across the yard to the quarters, and stopped at Uncle Manuel's cabin. The door was ajar, and Kitty could see the venerable old negro nodding before the flickering embers. She went in and called his name-- "Uncle Manuel!" "Eh! Who dat?" Then, looking around and perceiving Kitty, the old negro's weather-beaten face shone with a broad smile of surprise and welcome. "Why, honey! Why, little Mistiss! How come dis? You makes de ole nigger feel proud; dat you does. I fear'd ter ax you ter set down, honey, de cheer so rickety." "Uncle Manuel," said Kitty, "do you know Blue Dave?" Uncle Manuel was old, and wise, and cunning. He hesitated a moment before replying, and even then his caution would not allow him to commit himself. "Blue Dave, he's dat ar runaway nigger, ain't he, honey? I done year talk un 'im lots er times." "Well," said Kitty, placing her basket upon Uncle Manuel's tool-chest, "here is something for Blue Dave to eat. If you don't see him yourself, perhaps you can send it to him by some one." Uncle Manuel picked up the basket, weighed it in his hand, and then placed it on the chest again. Then he looked curiously at Kitty, and said-- "Honey, how come you gwine do dis? Ain't you year tell hit's ag'in de law fer ter feed a runaway nigger?" Kitty blushed as she thought of George Denham. "I send Blue Dave the victuals because I choose to, Uncle Manuel," she said. "The law has nothing to do with that little basket." She started to go, but Uncle Manuel raised both hands heavenwards. "Wait, little Mistiss," he cried, the tears running down his furrowed face; "des wait, little Mistiss. 'Twou't hurt you, honey. De ole nigger wuz des gwine ter git down ter his pra'rs 'fo' you come in. Dey ain't no riper time dan dis." Uncle Manuel's voice was husky with suppressed emotion. With his hands still stretched toward the skies, and the tears still running down his face, he fell upon his knees and exclaimed--