“And if that old man ever calculates to make any appearance at all before the nations of the earth, if he ever calculates to neighbor with ’em to any advantage, he will jest carry them stolen creeters back and put ’em down onharmed on the sile he dragged ’em from. “Good land! it won’t be no job for him; it won’t be no more for him than it would for my companion to take back a hen he had borryed from Deacon Huffer up to Zoar—or stole from him, I spoze I ort to say, in order to carry out the metafor as metafors ort to be carried.” I sez this in a real enthusiastic axent, and a very friendly one too towards Uncle Samuel; for I love that noble-minded but sometimes misguided old creeter—I love him dearly. But Victor smiled agin that sort of a amused smile, and yet a sort of a sad one too. And sez he: “I am afraid this Nation has not got your sense of honor.” He couldn’t help, I see, a kinder wishin’ that the Government would brace up and take over a few cargoes of ’em. But he wuz dubersome. But anyway he wuz bound they should get there some way. And I had a feelin’, as I looked at him, that the dark waves in front of him would part some way, and he would pass over into the light, he and his race. Wall, jest about as he finished up his idees to me, Genieve come in lookin’ as pretty as a pink, and I got up and carried the thread into the house, willin’ to leave ’em alone for a little while, and I spoze—I spoze they wuz willin’ to have me go. Yes, I hadn’t forgot what courtship wuz, when Josiah Allen come over to see me, sheepish but affectionate. And I remember well how he would brighten up when Mother Smith would be obleeged to go out to get supper, or to strain the milk, or sunthin’ or other. No, I hain’t forgot it, and most probable never shall. [Illustration: “UNDER THE WHITE CROSS.” ] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER X. LITTLE Snow wuz always askin’ about the little girl who wuz a lyin’ under the white cross and the rose-trees down in the corner of the garden at Belle Fanchon. And she would ask me sights of questions about her. She would ask “if Belle Fanchon used to walk about and run as she did through the paths of the old garden, and pick the roses, and stand under the orange-trees, and hear the birds sing, and the laugh of the brook as it wound along amongst the flowers?” And I would say, “Yes, I spoze so.” And then she would say, “What made her leave it all and go and lie down there under the grass?” And I would say, “The Lord wanted her.” And she would say, “Will He want me?” And I would hold her clost to my heart, and say, “Oh, no, darlin’, Grandma hopes not, not for a long, long time, not till these old eyes are closed many and many a year,” I would say.