Frank walked slowly through the village and along the road that led toward what had been his home. As he approached he dreaded the meeting with the professor, and he let his steps become slower and slower.
The main part of the village soon lay behind. He took off his hat and carried it in his hand, letting the evening breeze cool his brow. There was a scent of fallen apples from the orchard he was passing. A bit of silvery sheen was showing in the east, telling that the moon would soon be up. Away in the distance a watchdog was barking, but that was the only sound to disturb the perfect peace of the tranquil night.
At last, through the trees, Frank saw a gleam of light that he knew came from a window of the old mansion that had become his on the death of his uncle. He wondered if the professor was sitting there by that light waiting for him to appear.
As he turned in upon the gravel walk somebody stepped out from beneath a low tree and spoke:
“Who am dat?”
“Toots,” said Frank, “is it you?”
“Bress de Lawd!” cried the colored boy. “It am Mistah Frank him ownself! Oh, sah, I’s po’erful glad yo’ has come!”
Then he embraced Frank.
Frank knew that whatever might happen the colored boy would remain faithful and true, and he appreciated Toots’ affection.
“How are things, Toots?”