"Hope you's in de right ob it, but what kin you call it when it's all done printed out fur ye?"
"That is the question. Louis says 'call it The Harvest of Years.'"
The look of quiet wonder which had succeeded the terrified expression his face at first revealed merged gradually into one of happy certainty, his large eyes filled with honest tears, and he said with much feeling:
"Mas'r Louis knows what's right sure nuf. De good Lord had taken into de kingdom some ob de bes' grain an' lef de ole stubble still. 'Pears like 'twas cuttin' a big field fur to take Miss Catten an' de white lamb too. Ah! Miss Em'ly, dis harves' ob years is a gwine on troo all de seasons; hope dis ole nigger'll be ready when de Lord comes roun' fur him."
The child of my thought is christened by the recognition which comes from the heart of one who is "faithful over the few things," and therefore claims the promise which many with enlarged privileges fail to acknowledge. Can I regret the choice Louis made? My heart says "never," and my narrative shall be called "The Harvest of Years."
"Yes," said Louis, "I think so too; but my name for the book is 'Emily Did It.'"