And sayin’ this, the radiant-faced mourner turned away and joined some friends. As I turned back I met the colored preacher and his wife, who wuz evidently takin’ a short road home acrost the graveyard. [Illustration: ONE OF THE MOURNERS. ] She wuz a good-lookin’ mulatto woman, and I passed the time of day with her by sayin’, “How do you do?” and etc. And bein’ one that is always on the search for information, I fell into talk with her and her husband, and likin’ their looks, I finally asked him what his name wuz. And he said, “My name is Mary Johnson.” Sez I, “You mean your wife’s name is Mary.” “No,” sez he, “my name is Mary.” And then he went on and told me that he wuz the youngest of twelve boys, and his father wuz so mad at his havin’ been a boy that he named him, jest in spite, Mary. Wall, we had quite a good visit there, but short. He told me he had been a slave in his young days. And I asked him if his master had abused him, and he told me, and evidently believed every word he said, that his master wuz the best man this side of heaven. And sez he, “Freedom or not, I never would have left him, never. If he had lived,” sez he, “I would have worked for him till I dropped down.” And then he went on and related instances of his master’s kindness and good-hearted generosity, that made me stronger than ever in the belief I had always had, that there are good men and bad men everywhere and under all skies. And he told me about how, after his master died, and the grand old plantation broken up, the splendid mansion spoiled by the contendin’ hosts, and everything dear and sacred scattered to the winds—how his young master, the only one left of the happy family, had gone up North and wuz a doctor there. Buryin’ in his heart the scenes of his old happy life, and the overthrow of all his ambitious dreams, he wuz patiently workin’ on to make a home and a livelihood fur from all he had loved and lost. I declare for ’t, I most cried to hear him go on, and his wife joinin’ in now and then; they told the truth, and are Christians, both on ’em, I hain’t a doubt. Finally, we launched off on other subjects—on religion, etc.—and at the last he made a remark that gin me sunthin’ to think on all my way home to Belle Fanchon. For I give up goin’ to Eden Centre that day. Good land! I had talked too much—I am afraid it is a weakness with me—anyway, there wuzn’t any time. We wuz a talkin’ on religion, and faith, and the power of prayer, etc., and he sez: “I enjoy religion, but I have got too much confidence in God.” Sez I, “You mean you lack confidence in God.” “Yes, that is it, I lack confidence in God, for I find that when I pray to Him for anything, if I don’t get an answer to it to once I make other arraingments.”