TOBY.

(COMPETITIVE).

Everyone in Hampden knew Toby. Almost everyone loved him; but as Toby was a good old man, and a negro, and as good old men and negroes have their enemies, Toby,-well, Toby was no exception. Two people in Hampden didn't love Toby Wilson. One was Toby Wilson, the other Mrs. Calvert Pembroke, the mistress of Pembroke Hall. Toby was too happy in loving others to lavish affection on himself, and Mrs. Pembroke wasn't given much to affection, except toward one person, her little son, David. . That was the best trait in her nature, and she cultivated it. Each day as Toby shambled down the main and only street in the village, with his basket on his arm, to do the marketing for the Hall, he was surrounded by a happy, noisy group of children, black, yellow, and white, who tagged on the tails of his rusty frock coat, and shouted joyously at his half-hearted remonstrances, and his make-believe efforts to escape from them. Col. Sanderson also, the postmaster, and the doctor, never failed to bestow a kindly nod, and a dignified "How d'ye do, Toby," on him as he passed. Toby had two charms that won the hearts of all, an expansive smile which displayed his shining teeth, and a soft, beautiful voice. The smile was always present, but the voice was seldom

heard, except when talking to his "chiller'n," or when crooning a lullaby to some little one who was cross and sleepy. For it was a tradition in the village that no child could ever resist the soporific tones of his voice. Needless to say that Toby's services as a nurse were often in requisition. He and his ancestors had been slaves on the Pembroke plantation, and a Wilson had always been body servant to the master of the house. Though in former years Pembroke Hall had been one of the finest places in the county, and its masters famous for their hospitality in a land where hospitality is an universal virtue, since the disastrous days of the war it had fallen into a state almost bordering on ruin, little remaining to tell of its former grandeur save a long beautiful avenue of poplars, and the great white house with its stately entrance and broad verandas. The hedges had grown wild; the once carefully kept lawns were overrun with weeds and cockle; and away where the neat cabins of the slaves had stood was a mass of tumbledown beams, and chimneys. Decay does its work quickly, and five years is a long time. A general air of desolation and penury prevailed. When John Pembroke, the last master of the Hall, was killed in the trenches before Richmond, he left to his young wife and baby, nothing but a heavily-mortgaged property, and a little ready money. Like many other southern gentlemen, he had sacrificed everything, including his life, to the Lost Cause. His wife, who had no business ability, turned over the management of the house to Toby, the only one of the

vast number of slaves once owned by the Pembrokes, who had not taken advantage of the Emancipation to fly. But the proclamation meant nothing to him. He was his master's man, and though the hand that held authority over him was mouldered into dust he felt that death alone would free him from service to the family. Mrs. Pembroke he served because she was "Marse Jawn's" wife and "Marse David's" mother. He never liked the idea of a northern woman becoming mistress of the Hall, and when she came, her air was so different from the gentle condescension which he had always received from the ladies of the house that the prejudice he first felt developed into hearty dislike. He never could forget the way she acted when he brought the news of her husband's death. Though terribly shocked, she did not refrain from expressing her feelings in regard to the condition in which he had left her. It was a disgraceful scene, and Toby turned from the room, with tears in his eyes, when he heard the man he loved with all his soul reproached by a woman whom he considered a stranger. Mrs. Pembroke was disgusted with herself when she came to realize what she had said, and the knowledge that Toby was present shamed and angered her. Since that night he had been courteous and kind as ever, but she felt that he despised her. Her anger was increased when she noticed the intense love growing up between Toby and David. She was jealous of Toby, and the air of guardianship which he assumed over her son. Her antagonism toward him in

creased, until all feelings of gratitude for what he had done for her and David were lost sight of. She made up her mind that the only way to prevent Toby from weaning her child's regard away from her was to dismiss him, and that at once. Poor Mrs. Pembroke; she was passing through the whitening fires of experience, and she didn't realize it.

II.

Toby, you will have to go away," Mrs. Pembroke said with tightening lips one night. "I can't keep you any longer. Master David will school, and I shall

soon be old enough to go to go North with him. We would have to part soon anyway, and I wish to do so now. You had

better go at once." dull, broken voice, no home less'n this.

"Go 'way," said

"go 'way where?

Toby in a

I ain't got

Leave the ole house, an'

little Marse David? You shorely don' mean nuthin' like dat, Mistis. Whar would I go?" "There is the pauper farm." "Pauper farm! Me go to de pauper farm? Mistis, I wuz born on dis plantation like my mammy and pappy before me. I shorely did 'spect to die here. When ole Marse Cal wuz dyin' he send for me, an' he took my han's in his'n, an' lookin' right in my eyes he says: Toby,' says he, 'yo' is a good boy, Toby. I'se goin' away, an' I won't be back. You take good care of John, Toby, an' don't let him get in no trouble. Good-bye, Toby, don't never leave de ole place." An' I didn't. I jes' watched over Marse Jawn until he wuz ole enuff to take care of his self. An' den when the

war come, I went with him, an' I never lef' him. De night befoh he wuz killed, I wuz fryin' bacon in de fire, an' Marse Jawn, he comes over to me, an' he puts his han' on my shoulder an' when I looked up he had a letter in his han' an' he wuz jes' cryin' fo' joy. Toby,' he says, 'I'se got a little boy,' and den he jes' broke down, cryin' an' sobbin' like his heart would break. An' den he says, 'Toby,' he says, 'if anythin' happens to me to-morrer, or befoh dis wah is over, I want yo' to promise to go right back to de Mistis an' Davie, an' don't you never leave dem.' An' I promised. Nex' night, when he didn' come back with his men, I knowed sunthin' had happened, an' I went out an' searched de trenches an' dar he wuz lyin' in de moonlight (it wuz moonlight jes' like to-night), wid a smile on his face, an his han' on his breast. He wuz shot plum through de breast, an' right where de bullet went wuz de letter he got from yo', an' it wuz all soaked wid blood."

The old man couldn't go on. His face was twitching and his eyes were filled with tears. Mrs. Pembroke didn't look at him, but gazed studiously out through the window. "Den I

came back here, an' here I'se been ever sence. An' now I'se got to go 'way," and, rising unsteadily, he took his hat from the nail. Opening the door softly he stood on the threshold and looked out. The moon was shining brightly, and all the stars were out. From the depths of the palmetto swamp far away, back of the house, came the dismal croak of the frogs. Somewhere in its black depths a night bird sent forth its