Yes, I could make out a figure in the deepening dusk--the figure of a man on the back stoop--a tired-looking man, in his shirt-sleeves, who sat upon a low chair--no, not a chair--an empty box. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and the hands dropped limp. He was smoking, too, I could barely see his pipe, and but for the odor of very strong tobacco, would not have known he had a pipe. Why does the master of the house permit his servants so to desecrate this beautiful home? I thought. "Well, shall we go now?" said the Major. I turned silently and we retraced our steps. I think neither of us spoke for the distance of a square. "Guess you didn't know the man there on the back porch?" said the Major. "No; why?" I asked dubiously. "I hardly thought you would, and besides the poor fellow's tired, and it was best not to disturb him," said the Major. "Why; who was it--some one I know?" "It was Tommy." "Oh," said I inquiringly, "he's employed there in some capacity?" "Yes, as master of the house." "You don't mean it?" "I certainly do. He owns it, and made every cent of the money that paid for it!" said the Major proudly. "That's why I wanted you particularly to note that 'eminent characteristic' I spoke of. Tommy could just as well be sitting, with a fine cigar, on the front piazza in an easy chair, as, with his dhudeen, on the back porch, on an empty box, where every night you'll find him. It's the unconscious dropping back into the old ways of his father, and his father's father, and his father's father's father. In brief, he sits there the poor lorn symbol of the long oppression of his race." MRS. MILLER