His look was inclined downwards, as if fearful of meeting the stern gaze of my grandfather, who scanned him with the most minute attention, not unmingled with agitation. Every joint of the poor fellow's limbs shook as if struck with ague, and the cold seemed to have contracted his sinews; for he crouched his body together, as if to shrink from the keen blast. Tears were trickling down his cheek, and his spirit seemed bowed to the earth by distress. "Tell me," said my grandfather, "what brought you to England, and what you mean by strolling about the country here as a beggar? I may order you to be put in the stocks." "Ah, massa," replied the negro, "buckra never have stocks in dis country; yet he die if massa neber give him something to fill hungry stomach." While he was speaking my grandfather was restless and impatient. He removed me from his knee, and looked with more earnestness at the poor man, who never raised his head. "We have beggars enough of our own nation," said my grandfather. "Massa speak true," replied the African, meekly; "distress live everywhere; come like race-horse, but go away softly, softly." Again my grandfather looked sharply at the features of the man and showed signs of agitation in his own. "Softly, softly," said he, "that's just your cant. I know the whole gang of you, but you are not going to deceive me; now wouldn't you sacrifice me and all I am worth for a bunch of plantains?" "Massa have eat the plantains, den," said the man, "and yet massa think hard of poor negur who work to make them grow. God Almighty send rain--God Almighty send sun--but God Almighty send negur too." "Well, well," said my grandfather, softening his voice, "God is no respecter of colors, and we must not let you starve, daddy; so, Robert, tell the cook to get some warm broth, and bid her bear a hand about it." "God forever bless massa," exclaimed the poor man, as he listened to the order, and keenly directed his eye towards the person who had issued it; but my grandfather had turned his head toward me, so his face was not seen by the grateful man. "So I suppose you are some runaway slave?" said my grandfather, harshly. "No, massa," rejoined the African, "no, massa; never run away--I free man. Good buckra give freedom; but then I lose kind massa, and"---- "Ay, ay," replied my grandfather, "but what about Plantation Joseph, in Trinidad?" "Ky!" responded the man, as his eyes were bent upon his questioner, who again hid his face; "de buckra knows ebery ting; him like the angel of light to know the secret of the heart." "Come nearer to the fire, Daddy Davy," said my grandfather, as he bent down to stir the burning coals with the poker. Never shall I forget the look of the African; joy, wonder, and admiration were pictured in his face, as he exclaimed, while advancing forward-- "De buckra know my name too!--how dis?"