"Never did? There's a heap on 'em, wud 'jes like ter see ye. Long time awaitin', but de promise ov de Massa mus' be true," and again a thoughtful look came over his dusky face. "I don't mind tellin' ye a little if I ken. I was a slave in Carlina, an' I had a good massa, Miss; a fus-rate man, but he done tuk sick an' died, an' then--wh-e-ew," and he gave a long, low whistle, "thar cum sich a time thar; de ole woman she done no nuthin' 'bout de biznis, an' de big son he sell all de niggers an' get _all_ de money, an' dars whar my trubbel begin. De nex' massa had de debbil fur his father, sure; nothin' go rite; made me go an' marry, fus thing, an' to a gal I didn't like, nohow. Little niggers come along, an' I done bes' I cud by 'em, but what cud I do? Nothin' at all; an' fus thing I knew--he'd done gone an' sold ebery one ob dat family, and den he mus' hab me marry agin. Dis secon' marriage was better'n that; fur I did like de gal mighty well. 'Pears like we's gwine to take sum comfort, and when we'd had de meetins to our cabin, oh! how we did jes pray fur dat freedom we hear'm tell 'bout--pray mos' too loud, for dat old Mas'r Sumner tink we's alltogeder too happy, an' den, he up and sold dat pretty gal ob ourn, what was jes risin' uv her fourth year, Miss, an' as pretty as could be. Dis broke my wife's heart, an' den he sold one more to a trader; and not long fur de wife an' two last' chilun was gone. Den I jes swore rite up, Miss--rite into dat Masr's face an' eyes--'I'm neber gwine to hab no more chilun,' an' he says to me, 'Matt, you got to do jes as I say,' an' I swear agin, an' he cuss and swear, an' then, I got sich a floggin'--Miss, but I didn't keer, an' I would never done as dat man sed, an' I 'spected to die, but a New Orleans trader cum dat way, an' I was sold, and Mas'r Sumner said, de las' thing, 'You'll get killed now, Matt.' 'All right, Mas'r,' I sed, 'de Lord is a waitin' an' He's a good fren, too,' an' off I went. Dar we wur in a pen in New Orleans, waitin' fur we didn't know what, an' on come a fever an' dat trader know he's got to die. Den, to make peace wid de Lord at the las't jump he done giv us all freedom, an' money to git us into dat great city ov New York; an' mine lasted me clean up to Misse Hungerford's door (Aunt Phebe), an' las' night, when I see dat nice room over thar an' that good fire, oh! my," and the old man buried his face in his hands and wept like a child, then looking up, he said, "Ef I cud only ahad my chilun in thar; 'pears de Lord Himself might ahelped me a minnit sooner--but dey is gone, all done gone, an' 'taint no use." "You may meet them again, Mr. Jones; I hope we shall know each other there in that better country, and if we do you'll surely know and find them."