“Lawd, Lawd,” returned Big Abel, “I wa'n' bo'n yestiddy nur de day befo'. Terreckly I seed you a-cuttin' up de drive, I knowed dar wuz mo' den wuz in de tail er de eye, en w'en you des lit right out agin en bang de do' behint you fitten ter bus' hit, den I begin ter steddy 'bout de close in de big wa'drobe. I got out one er ole Miss's sheets w'en she wa'n' lookin, en I tie up all de summer close de bes' I kin--caze dat ar do' bang hit ain' soun' like you gwine be back fo' de summer right plum hyer. I'se done heah a do' bang befo' now, en dars mo' in it den des de shettin' ter stay shet.” “So you ran away?” said Dan, with a long whistle. “Ain't you done run away?” “I--oh, I was turned out,” answered the young man, with his eyes on the negro. “But--bless my soul, Big Abel, why did you do it?” Big Abel muttered something beneath his breath, and went on laying out the things. “How you gwine git dese yer close ef I ain' tote 'em 'long de road?” he asked presently. “How you gwine git dis yer close bresh ef I ain' brung hit ter you? Whar de close you got? Whar de close bresh?” “You're a fool, Big Abel,” retorted Dan. “Go back where you belong and don't hang about me any more. I'm a beggar, I tell you, and I'm likely to be a beggar at the judgment day.” “Whar de close bresh?” repeated Big Abel, scornfully. “What would Saphiry say, I'd like to know?” went on Dan. “It isn't fair to Saphiry to run off this way.” “Don' you bodder 'bout Saphiry,” responded Big Abel. “I'se done loss my tase fur Saphiry, young Marster.” “I tell you you're a fool,” snapped out Dan, sharply. “De Lawd he knows,” piously rejoined Big Abel, and he added: “Dar ain' no use a-rumpasin' case hyer I is en hyer I'se gwine ter stay. Whar you run, dar I'se gwine ter run right atter, so 'tain' no use a-rumpasin'. Hit's a pity dese yer ain' nuttin' but summer close.” Dan looked at him a moment in silence, then he put out his hand and slapped him upon the shoulder. “You're a fool--God bless you,” he said. “Go 'way f'om yer, young Marster,” responded the negro, in a high good-humour. “Dar's a speck er dut right on yo' shut.” “Then give me another,” cried Dan, gayly, and threw off his coat. When he went down stairs, carefully brushed, a half-hour afterward, the world had grown suddenly to wear a more cheerful aspect. He greeted Mrs. Hicks with his careless good-humour, and spoke pleasantly to the dirty white-haired children that streamed through the dining room. “Yes, I'll take my breakfast now, if you please,” he said as he sat down at one end of the long, oilcloth-covered table. Mrs. Hicks brought him his coffee and cakes, and then stood, with her hands upon a chair back, and watched him with a frank delight in his well-dressed comely figure. “You do favour the Major, Mr. Dan,” she suddenly remarked.