Great was the speculation in the quartets as to what Mos' Grif had for every one.

"Hit's des' lade Chris'mus!"

"I des wisht I knowed wat I gwine t' git."

"Lawsey me, but I wisht hit was arter supper now!"

In the twilight they came swaying up through the gra.s.s--a long irregular line of them. Jerry had his banjo. Mammy, Sallie's old mother, carrieed in her arms the white baby. Little Margaret was her sole care and charge and no more devoted lovers existed.

"'Et me wide piggy back, mammy," plead the child.

"Heah, Jerry, put dis heah chile on my back! Be mons'ous keerful dar now! Don' yoh let dat chile fall! Dar yoh is, honey! Dar yoh is! Hoi'

tight, now! Hug yoah ole mammy tight! D-a-t-s de way.

"'Go down, Moses, away down in Egypt's lan'.

Go tell ole Pharoah, t' let my people go.'"

Mammy began to trot and hum the tune for the child. The swaying rhythm caught like a sudden fire in a field of ripened grain. Every voice, old and young, fell into harmony, and Jerry's banjo beat its tuneful way like the ripple of a stream through it all.

Mrs. Davenport stood by the window watching them as they came nearer and nearer. Her face was sad and troubled. She looked up into the clear twilight and saw one star peer out. She did not know why, but in some mysterious way it seemed to comfort her. She smiled through dim eyes at the child on mammy's back. Her husband still sat by the table sorting over some legal-looking papers.

"Are those the manumission papers, father?" asked Beverly, taking one up and turning it curiously.

"Yes."

Beverly glanced at his father. It seemed to him that the lines in his face were very sad. The merry twinkle that always hid in the corners of eyes and mouth were obliterated. Then was a settled look of anxiety.

He seemed older. Beverly was silent. He more nearly understood what his father was doing than did even Katherine. Presently he said: "Hear them sing!"

Mr. Davenport was staring straight before him into s.p.a.ce. He turned to listen.

"Happy, careless, thoughtless, unfortunate creatures," he said softly, "and as free as you or I, this minute--as free as you or I--if only they knew it;" then suddenly--"No, not that, either. They can never be _that_ so long as they may not stay here free, even if they want to. I suppose I am breaking the law to tell them what I shall to-night, but I _can't_ take them away from their old home and friends and not tell them it is for good and all--that they may not come back. For good and all--for good and all," he repeated, abstractedly. After a long pause he said, "Law or no law, I cannot do that. I must tell them they are free before they go--and that they must say good-bye, never to come back."

"Seems pretty hard, doesn't it, father? But then--but--don't you think G.o.d was pretty hard on them when He--when He made them black? Jerry is a gentleman, if--if he was not black."

"Griffith," asked Katherine from the window, "how do you suppose they will take it? I'm afraid----"

"Take it! take it! Why, little woman, how would you or I take freedom if it were given to us?" The thought cheered him and he crossed the room and tapped her cheek with the papers. His face beamed. "I'm prepared to see the wildest outbreak of joy." He chuckled, and some of the old lines of mirth came back to his face. "I'm glad Jerry brought his banjo. They will be in a humor for some of the rollicking songs afterward. I think they would do me good too. And you, you, little woman, you will need it too. You have been brave--you have been my tower of great strength in all this. If _you_ had contested it, I'm afraid my strength would have given out, after all." He put his arm around her. "But G.o.d knows what we can stand, Katherine, and he tempers the trial to our strength. Thank G.o.d it is over--the wont of it," he said, and drew her to him.

Suddenly this silent, self-controlled woman threw both arms about his neck and sobbed aloud. "G.o.d help us to bear it, Griffith. Sometimes I think I cannot! It is hard! It is hard!"

He stroked her hair silently.

"Mos' Grif, does yoh want us to come in er t' stay on de big po'ch?"

It was Jerry's voice. "Good-ebnin', Mis' Kath'rine I I hope yoh is monst'ous well dis ebenin'. Thanky, ma'am, yes'm, I'm middlin'."

Mis. Davenport drew herself farther into the shadow, but she heard the little groan that escaped her husband. She understood. Her own voice was as steady as if no storm had pa.s.sed.

"Open these large windows on to the porch, Jerry, and your Mos' Grif will talk to you from here. Just keep them all outside. I liked your songs. When Mos' Grif is done with you all, sing some more--sing that one he likes so well--the one about 'Fun in de Cabin.'" "To be sho', Mis' Kath'rine, to be sho'. Dat I will. What dat Mos' Grif gwine ter gib us? Milt he 'low dat hit's terbacker, an' Lippy Jane she 'low dat hit's calicker, an' John he 'low dat--"

With the opening of the low windows a great wave of "howdys" arose and a cloud of black faces cl.u.s.tered dose to the open s.p.a.ces. The moon was rising behind them and the lamp on the table within gave but a feeble effort to rival the mellow light outside. The master was slow to begin, but, at last, when the greetings were over he said, with an effort to seem indifferent, "You all know that we are going away from here and that you are going, too; but--" He found the task harder than he had expected. His voice trembled and he was glad that Katherine put her hand on his arm. He s.h.i.+fted his position and began again. "You have all heard of freedom." He was looking at them, and the faces were so blandly, blankly vacant of that which he was groping for--they were so evidently expecting a gift of tobacco, or its like--that he omitted all he had thought of to say of their new freedom and what it could mean for them, and what it had meant for him to secure it for them, and at once held up the folded papers. "These are legal papers. They are all registered at a court-house. I have one for each one of you. These papers set you free!

They are manumission papers, and you are all to be free! free--"

The silence was unbroken except for a slight shuffling of feet, but the dire disappointment was depicted on every face. That was too plain to be mistaken. Only papers! No tobacco! No calico! Nothing to eat! The silence grew uncomfortable. They were waiting for something for which they could give out the "thanky, Mos' Grif, thanky, sir, I's mighty much 'bleeged t' you, I is dat!" in their own hearty and happy way.

Griffith found himself trying to explain what these papers really were.

He chanced to open Judy's first. He would make an object lesson of it.

She had been his nurse, and was too old and rheumatic to work except as the spirit of occupation urged her to some trifling task. Griffith was reading the paper and explaining as he went. The negroes looked from the master to Judy and back again until he was done. She walked lamely to his side when he had finished and was holding her freedom papers toward her. She held out her hand for it. Then she tore it through twice and tossed it out of the window. Her eyes flashed and she held herself erect.

"What I want wid yoah ole mannermussent papers? What I want wid 'em, hey?" She folded her arms. "_Me_ a free n.i.g.g.e.r! Me! Mos' Grif, yoh ain't nebber gwine ter lib t' be ole enough t' make no free n.i.g.g.e.r out ob ole Judy! What I fotch yoh up foh? Didn't I nus yoh fum de time yoh was a teenchy little baby, an' wasn't ole Mis' and yoah paw sas'fied wid me?

What I done t' yoh now? What fo' is yoh gwine ter tun me loose dat a way? Mannermussent papers!" she exclaimed, in a tone of contemptuous wrath, "mannermussent papers! Yoh can't mannermussent yoah ole Aunt Judy! Deys life lef in her yit!"

It was done so suddenly. The reception of freedom was so utterly unexpected--so opposed to what he had fondly hoped--that Griffith stood amazed. Katherine motioned to mammy, who still stood with the white baby in her arms. "Give me the baby, mammy. I will--"

"Mis' Kate," said the old woman, turning, as she pushed her way through the room, "Mis' Kate, do Mos' Grif mean dat yo' alls is gwine ter _leabe_ us? Do he mean dat we _alls_ is got ter be free n.i.g.g.e.rs, wid no fambly an' no big house an' no baby t' nus?"

She changed the child's position, and the little soft, white cheek lay contentedly against the black one.

"'Cause, if _dat's_ wat Mos' Grif mean, dis heah chile ob yoahs an' ole mammy, deys gwine t' stay togedder. Dis heah mammy don't eben _tetch_ no ole mannermossent papers! Tar hit up yo'se'f, Mis' Kate, kase dis heah n.i.g.g.e.r ain't eben gwine t' tetch hit. She's des gwine ter put dis baby ter bed lak she alius done. Goodnight, Mis' Kate! Good-night, Mos'

Grif!"

She was half-way up the stairs, when she turned.

"Mis' Kate, sumpin' er a-nudder done gone wrong wid Mos' Grifs haid.

Sho' as yoh bawn, honey, dat's a fack! I wisht yoh send fo' yoh paw. I does dat!" and she waddled up the stairs, with the sleeping child held dose to her faithful heart.

The reception of the freedom papers by the others varied with temperament and age. Two or three of the younger ones reached in over the heads of those in front of them when their names were called, and, holding the papers in their hands, "cut a pigeon-wing" in the moonlight.

One or two looked at theirs in stupid, silent wonder. Jerry and his wife gazed at the twins, and, in a half-dazed, half-shamefaced way, took theirs. Jerry took all four to Katherine. "Keep dem fo' me, please, ma'am, Mis' Kathrine, kase I ain't got no good place fer ter hide'em.

Mebby dem dare chillun gwine ter want'em one er dese here days."

Not one grasped the full meaning of it all. It was evident that one and all expected to live along as before--to follow the fortunes of the family.

"Thanky, Mos' Grif, much 'bleeged," said old Milt, as he took his, "but I'd a heap site a-rud-der had some mo' ob dat town terbacker--I would dat, honey."

"Give it up for to-night, Griffith," said his wife, gently, as he still stood helplessly trying to explain again and again. "You look so white, and I am very tired. Give it up for tonight. It will be easier after they have talked it over together, perhaps--by daylight."

She pushed him gently into a chair and motioned to Jerry to take them all away. The faithful fellow remembered, when outside, that she had asked him to sing, but the merry song she had named had no echo in the hearts about him. All understood that they had failed to respond to something that the master had expected. The strings of his banjo rang out in a few minor chords, and as they moved toward the quarters an old forgotten melody floated back--

O, de shadders am a deepenin' on de mountains, O, de shadders am a deep'nin' on de stream, An' I think I hear an echo f urn de valley, An echo ob de days ob which I dream!

Ole happy days! Ole happy days!

Befo' I knew dat sorrow could be bawn, When I played wid mos'er's chillun in de medder, When my wuk was done a-hoein' ob de cawn!

Dose happy, happy days! Dose happy, happy days!

Dey'll come again no mo', no-o-o m-o-r-e, no more!

Ole mos'er is a-sleepin' 'neath de willow!

An' de apple blossoms' failin' on de lawn, Where he used to sit an' doze beneath its shadder, In de days when I was hoein' ob de cawn!

Ole happy, etc.