"Now, massa Joe, strike up de wal'z; Dinah an' I am gwine ter show dese folks some highfalutin dancin'." The waltz struck up, and off they whirled. Dinah went into it as if she were working for pay; and as Joe held her closely in his arms, her wide hoops expanded till she looked like a topsail schooner scudding under bare poles. While Joe was wiping the perspiration from his face, at the end of the waltz, an old negro entered, and whispered something in his ear. Joe's countenance fell, and, without saying a word, he left the room. "Massa Joe," relinquishing the big fiddle, then took the floor with Rosey, and gave the audience a genuine breakdown. His heels bobbed about like balls at a cricket match, and Rosey's petticoats fluttered like the contents of a clothes line caught out in a hurricane. A better-looking couple were never seen in a ball room. "He's a natural born darky," said his father, laughing; "he takes to dancing as a duck takes to water." A general dance followed. In the midst of it the old negro who had called Joe out, again came in, and, making his way to where Preston and I were standing, he said, in a low tone: "Massa Robert, ole Jack am dyin'; will 'ou come ?” "Dying!" exclaimed Preston. "Yes, I'll be there at once. Kirke, you remember the old man; come with me." CHAPTER XX. A DEATHBED. THE moon and the stars were out, and the tall, dark pines cast long, gloomy shadows over the little rows of negro houses which formed the rearguard to Preston's mansion. They were nearly deserted. Not a solitary fire slumbered on the bare clay hearths, and not a single darky stood sentry over the loose pork and neglected hoecakes, or kept at bay the army of huge rats and prowling opossums which beleaguered the quarSilence-death's music-was over and around them. The noisy revelry of the dancers had died away in the distance, and even the hoarse song of the great trees had sunk to a low moan, as they stood, motionless and abashed, in the presence of the grim giant who knocks alike at the palace and the cottage gate. ters. A stray light glimmered through the logs of a low hut, far off in the woods, and, making our way to it, we entered. A bright fire lit up the interior, and on a rude cot, in one corner, lay the old preacher. His eyes were closed; a cold, clammy sweat was on his forehead-he was dying. One of his skele ton hands rested on the tattered coverlet, and his weazened face was half buried in a dilapidated pillow, whose ragged casing and protruding plumage bespoke it a relic of some departed white sleeper. An old negress, with gray hair and haggard visage, sat at the foot of the bed, wailing piteously; and Joe and half a dozen aged saints stood around, singing a hymn, doleful enough to have made even a sinner weep. Not heeding our entrance, Joe took the dying man by the hand, and, in a slow, solemn voice, said: "Brudder Jack, you'm dyin'; you'm gwine ter dat lan' whence no trabeller returns; you'm settin' out fur dat country which'm lit by de smile ob de Lord; whar dar ain't no sickness, no pain, no sorrer, no dyin'; fur dat kingdom whar de Lord reigns; whar trufh flows on like a riber; whar righteousness springs up like de grass, an' lub draps down like de dew, an' cobers de face ob de groun'; whar you woan't gwo 'bout wid no crutch; whar you woan't lib in no ole cabin like dis, an' eat hoecake an' salt pork in sorrer an' heabiness ob soul; but whar you'll run an' not be weary, an' walk an' not be faint; whar you'll hab a hous'n builded ob de Lord, an' sit at His table-you' meat an' drink de bread an' de water ob life! "I knows you's a sinner, Jack; I knows you's lub'd de hot water too much, an' dat it make you forgit you' duty sometime, an' set a bad 'zample ter dem as looked up ter you fur better tings; but dar am mercy wid de Lord, Jack; dar am forgibness wid Him; an' I hopes you'm ready an' willin' ter gwo." Old Jack opened his eyes, and, in a low, peevish tone, said: แ Joe, none ob you' nonsense ter me! I'se hard you talk dis way afore. You can't preach-you neber could. You jess knows I ain't fit ter trabble, an' I ain't willin' ter gwo, nowhar." Joe mildly rebuked him, and again commenced expatiating on the "upper kingdom," and on the glories of "the house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens;" but the old darky cut him short, with "Shet up, Joe! no more ob dat. I doan't want no oder hous'n but dis-dis ole cabin am good 'nuff fur me." Joe was about to reply, when Preston stepped to the bedside, and, taking the aged preacher's hand, said : "My good Jack, master Robert has come to see you." The dying man turned his eyes toward his master, and, in a weak, tremulous voice, exclaimed: Jack "Oh! massa Robert, has you come? has you come ter see ole Jack? Bress you, massa Robert, bress you! know'd you'd neber leab him yere ter die alone." "No, my good Jack; I would save you, if I could.” "But you can't sabe me, massa Robert; I'se b'yond dat. I'se dyin', massa Robert. I'se gwine ter de good missus. She tell'd me ter git ready ter foller har, an' I is. I'se gwine ter har now, massa Robert! "I know you are, Jack. I feel sure you are.” "Tank you, massa Robert tank you fur sayin' dat. An' woan't you pray fur me, massa Robert-jess a little pray? De good man's prayer am h'ard, you knows, massa Robert!" All kneeling down on the rough floor, Preston prayed-a short, simple, fervent prayer. At its close, he rose, and, bending over the old negro, said: "The Lord is good, Jack; His mercy is everlasting." "I knows dat; I feels dat," gasped the dying man. "I lubs you, massa Robert; I allers lub'd you; but I'se gwine ter |