Sanders was silent, and his wife; and the children, barelegged and dirty-faced, sat on the grass and mutely watched the bearded stranger and his mother in childish wonder. Bradley said nothing, but he moved his chair nearer to his mother’s and put his strong arm around her. Sanders broke the silence. “What have you been follerin’, Bradley?” he asked. “Sellin’ goods.” “Clerkin’ fer somebody?” “No; had a ‘stablishment o’ my own.” “You don’t say!” and Sanders looked at Bradley’s seedy attire and then at his wife significantly. “Yes; I made some money out thar. The night ‘fore I left, a feller offered me ten thousand dollars in cash fer my stock o’ goods, an’ I tuk ‘im up. I didn’t wait to put on my Sunday clothes; these is the things I worked in, handlin’ dirty groceries. I hain’t the pertic’lar sort. I’ve got some bonds an’ rale estate that kin remain jest as well whar they are at present. I’ve come back here to stay with mother. I couldn’t stand it to be alone much longer, an’ I wouldn’t ax ’er to move to a new country at ’er age.” Sanders and his wife stared at him in astonishment. Mrs. Bradley leaned forward and looked intently into his face. She was very pale and quivered with new excitement, but she said nothing. “My Lord, you’ve had luck!” exclaimed Sanders, thinking of something to say finally. “What on earth are you gwine to invest in here, ef it hain’t no harm to ax?” “I ‘lowed I’d buy a big plantation. They are a-goin’ cheap these times, I reckon. I want a place whar a livin’ will come easy, an’ whar I kin make mother comfortable. She’s too old to have to lay ’er hand to a thing, ur be bothered in the least. I want to be nigh some meetin’-house of her persuasion, an whar she kin ‘sociate with other women o’ her age. I don’t expect to atone fer my neglect, but I intend to try my hand at it fer a change.” Mrs. Bradley lowered her head to her son’s knee, and began to sob softly. Then Mrs. Sanders got up quickly. “I smell my bread a-burnin’,” she said. “I ’ll call y’all into supper directly. We hain’t pretendin’ folks, Mr. Bradley, but yo’ ‘re welcome to what we got. You needn’t rise, Mrs. Bradley; I kin fix the table.” THE SALE OF UNCLE RASTUS |Aunt Milly’s cabin was brightly illuminated. Crude tallow dips in the necks of cracked jugs and bottles spangled a dark clothless table, a slanting heap of blazing logs filled the wide rock-and-mud chimney, and a bonfire of pine knots at the “wash-place” near the door outside threw a red light far down the road which led past a row of cabins to the residence of Aunt Milly’s owner, Mr. Herbert Putnam.