"O Lawd, Ah don' know what mek Marse Harry come hyuh lak dis. But yo' knows what he done fo' ole Jube. Keep him yeahs en yeahs, feed him, en when he so sick he gwine die, tek en git er doctah en cure him up. When ah so old ah ain' no good no mo' he gimme dee lan' up hyuh fo' tuh live on. Don' do nuffin cep'n watch dee house, en when he come sometimes Ah cooks fo' him—das all! Ah don' know whaffuh he have on dem wicked clo's—don' keer nuth'n erbout dat. Kase, Lawd, Marse Harry ain' ben fo' tuh do nuth'n bad. Dey tek yo' darlin' son, dee Book says, en put er crown o' tho'ns on he beautiful haid, en he ain' done nuth'n 'tall cep'n good. Ah don' keer what Marse Harry have on; Ah reck'n when he come lak dis, Yo' gwine he'p me he'p him—kase das what he done fo' me!"
As the earnest voice ceased, another spoke behind him. "Jube!"
The old man rose hastily and came to the couch. "Yo' knows me ergen, Marse Harry?"
"Yes, Jube. When—did I get here?"
"Dis mawnin', suh, befo' sun-up."
"Was any one else here?"
"No, Marse. Ain' ben nobody up hyuh sence dee fust snow-fall."
Sevier was silent a moment, his eyes fixed on the black, affectionate face. "Jube—bring me the things I—had on."
The other crossed the room and came back with a suit which he laid on the blanket.
Sevier shook his head feebly. "Not those. The—others."