MRS. GASTON’S recovery from the brain fever which followed her prostration was slow and painful. For days she would be quite herself as she would sit up in bed and smile at the wistful face of the boy who sat tenderly gazing into her eyes, or with swift feet was running to do her slightest wish.

Then days of relapse would follow when the child’s heart would ache and ache with a dumb sense of despair as he listened to her incoherent talk, and heard her meaningless laughter. When at length he could endure it no longer, he would call Aunt Eve, run from the house, as fast as his little legs could carry him, and in the woods lie down in the shadows and cry for hours.

“I wonder if God is dead?” he said one day as he lay and gazed at the clouds sweeping past the openings in the green foliage above.

“I pray every day and every night, but she don’t get well. Why does He leave her like that, when she’s so good!” and then his voice choked into sobs, and he buried his face in the leaves.

He was suddenly roused by the voice of Nelse who stood looking down on his forlorn figure with tenderness.

“What you doin’ out in dese woods, honey, by yo’ se’f?”

“Nothin’, Nelse.”

“I knows. You’se er crying ’bout yo Ma.”

The boy nodded without looking up.

“Doan do dat way, honey. You’se too little ter cry lak dat. Yer Ma’s gittin’ better ev’ry day, de doctor done tole me so.”

“Do you think so, Nelse?” There was an eagerness and yearning in the child’s voice, that would have moved the heart of a stone.

“Cose I does. She be strong en well in little while when cole wedder comes. Fros ’ll soon be here. I see whar er ole rabbit been er eatin’ on my turnip tops. Dat’s er sho sign. I gwine make you er rabbit box ter-morrer ter ketch dat rabbit.”

“Will you, Nelse?”

“Sho’s you bawn. Now des lemme pick you er chune on dis banjer ’fo I goes ter my wuk.”

Of all the music he had ever heard, the boy thought Nelse’s banjo was the sweetest. He accompanied the music in a deep bass voice which he kept soft and soothing. The boy sat entranced. With wide open eyes and half parted lips he dreamed his mother was well, and then that he had grown to be a man, a great man, rich and powerful. Now he was the Governor of the state, living in the Governor’s palace, and his mother was presiding at a banquet in his honour. He was bending proudly over her and whispering to her that she was the most beautiful mother in the world. And he could hear her say with a smile, “You dear boy!”

Suddenly the banjo stopped, and Nelse railed with mock severity, “Now look at ’im er cryin’ ergin, en me er pickin’ de eens er my fingers off fur ’im!”

“No, I aint cryin’. I am just listenin’ to the music. Nelse, you’re the greatest banjo player in the world!”

“Na, honey, hits de banjer. Dats de Jo-bloin’est banjer! En des ter t’ink—er Yankee gin’er to me in de wah! Dat wuz the fus’ Yankee I ebber seed hab sense enuf ter own er banjer. I kinder hate ter fight dem Yankees atter dat.”

“But Nelse, if you were fighting with our men how did you get close to any Yankees?”

“Lawd child, we’s allers slippin’ out twixt de lines atter night er carryin’ on wid dem Yankees. We trade ’em terbaccer fur coffee en sugar, en play cyards, en talk twell mos’ day sometime. I slip out fust in er patch er woods twix’ de lines, en make my banjer talk. En den yere dey come! De Yankees fum one way en our boys de yudder. I make out lak I doan see ’em tall, des playin’ ter myself. Den I make dat banjer moan en cry en talk about de folks way down in Dixie. De boys creep up closer en closer twell dey right at my elbow en I see ’em cryin’, some un ’em—den I gin’er a juk! en way she go pluckety plunck! en dey gin ter dance and laugh! Sometime dey cuss me lak dey mad en lam me on de back. When dey hit me hard den I know dey ready ter gimme all dey got.”

“But how did you............