Mrs. Meriwether, his old mistress, was just telling me of him one day in reply to a question of mine as to what had become of him; for I had known him before the war. “Oh! he is living still, and he bids fair to outlast the whole colored female sex. He is a perfect Bluebeard. He has had I do not know how many wives and I heard that his last wife was sick. They sent for my son, Douglas, the doctor, not long ago to see her. However, I hope she is better as he has not been sent for again.” At this moment, by a coincidence, the name of Jabez was brought in by a maid. “Unc' Jabez, m'm.” That was all; but the tone and the manner of the maid told that Jabez was a person of note with the messenger; every movement and glance were self-conscious. “That old--! He is a nuisance! What does he want now? Is his wife worse, or is he after a new one?” “I d' n' kn', m'm,” said the maid, sheepishly, twisting her body and looking away, to appear unconcerned. “Would n' tell me. He ain' after _me!_ “Well, tell him to go to the kitchen till I send for him. Or--wait: if his wife 's gone, he 'll be courting the cook if I send him to the kitchen. And I don't want to lose her just now. Tell him to come to the door.” “Yes, 'm.” The maid gave a half-suppressed giggle, which almost became an explosion as she said something to herself and closed the door. It sounded like, “Dressed up might'ly--settin' up to de cook now, I b'lieve.” There was a slow, heavy step without, and a knock at the back door; and on a call from his mistress, Jabez entered, bowing low, very pompous and serious. He was a curious mixture of assurance and conciliation, as he stood there, hat in hand. He was tall and black and bald, with white side-whiskers cut very short, and a rim of white wool around his head. He was dressed in an old black coat, and held in his hand an ancient beaver hat around which was a piece of rusty crape. “Well, Jabez?” said his mistress, after the salutations were over, “How are you getting along!” “Well, mist'is, not very well, not at all well, ma'am. Had mighty bad luck. 'Bout my wife,” he added, explanatorily. He pulled down his lips, and looked the picture of solemnity. I saw from Mrs. Meriwether's mystified look that she did not know what he considered “bad luck.” She could not tell from his reference whether his wife was better or worse. “Is she--ah? What--oh--how is Amanda?” she demanded finally, to solve the mystery. “Mandy! Lord! 'm, 'Mandy was two back. She 's de one runned away wid Tom Halleck, an' lef' me. I don't know how _she_ is. I never went ahter her. I wuz re-ally glad to git shet o' her. She was too expansive. Dat ooman want two frocks a year. When dese women begin to dress up so much, a man got to look out. Dee ain't always dressin' fer _you!_” “Indeed!” But Mrs. Meriwether's irony was lost on Jabez. “Yes, 'm; dat she did! Dis one 's name was Sairey.” He folded his hands and waited, the picture of repose and contentment.