"It is my duty," I said. "It is a grand mission to go to Texas and carry what light I can to its benighted inhabitants. The school I am offered will pay me well, and if I can teach the savage people of that region something of our culture and refinement, I shall be happy." "Well, then, goodbye," said Cyrus, offering me his hand. I had never seen him so passionately aroused. I took his hand for a second and then got upon the train that was to bear me to my new field of duty. Cyrus and I had been engaged to be married for fifteen years. He was professor of chemistry in the Massachusetts State University. I had received an offer of $40 a month to teach a private school in a little town in Texas, and had accepted it. Cyrus received $20 per month from his chair in the university. He had waited for fifteen years for me to save up enough money for us to get married. I seized this chance in Texas, resolved to live economically, and in fifteen more years, if I kept the school that long, we could marry. My board was to cost me nothing, as the DeVeres, one of the oldest and most aristocratic families anywhere in the South, offered me a place in their home. There were several children in the family, and they were anxious to secure a competent teacher for the little school which they attended. The station where I got off was called Houston, and I found there a team waiting to convey me to Vereton, the little town six miles away, which was my destination. The driver was a colored man, who approached me and asked respectfully if I was Miss Cook. My trunk was placed in the vehicle, which was an old rickety ambulance drawn by a pair of wretched mules, and I mounted beside the driver, whose name, he said, was Pete. While we were driving along a shady road, Pete suddenly burst into tears and sobbed as if his heart were breaking. "My friend," said I, "will you not tell me what is the matter?" "Ah, missie," he said between sobs, "I happen to look at dat busted link hangin' down from dat trace chain en it remind me of Massa Linkum what am in heb'n, what gib us po' slaves freedom." "Pete," said I, "do not weep. In the mansions of the blessed above, your godlike liberator awaits you. Singing among the hosts of heaven, Abraham Lincoln wears the brightest crown of glory." I laid my arm gently across Pete's shoulder. The poor, softhearted, grateful man, whose dark skin covered a heart as pure as snow, still sobbed at the remembrance of the martyred Lincoln, and I made him lay his head upon my breast, where he sobbed unrestrainedly as I drove the mules myself the rest of the way to Vereton. * * * * * Vereton was a typical Southern home. I had been informed that the DeVere family were still very wealthy, in spite of having lost a great deal during the rebellion, and that they still lived in the true aristocratic planter style.