“Thank ye, thank ye, mars’ George,” cried the negro, answering involuntarily in the old plantation dialect, and turning delightedly to the newcomer. “Wh-whar you been, Mars,’ an’ how’s Miss Rosy?”
“She’s well, ’Lijah,” said the young man, with a sparkle in his eye. “I’ve been away from the city for a month. To-night I was going up there, but”—
“But what, but what, Mars’ George?” queried the old man eagerly. “Ef a po’ ole nig kin do anything fer ye, he’ll do it sho’. Anything, Mars’!”
George Farley looked at him kindly. “I know you would, ’Lijah. And yet, I hardly know—if I hadn’t been away so long”—
He was a generous young fellow, and he wanted to do right both by his employers and his humble companion. The fact was, he had been charged to remain in the store that night, the regular watchman being at home sick. He had been looking forward during his long absence on the road to that very Christmas Eve, which he was to spend with the owner of a certain pair of merry brown eyes, at the other end of the city. The temptation was too great. “It won’t come again for a year,” he argued to himself; “it won’t ever be just the same as to-night. One hour or two would do no harm, and ’Lijah is as faithful as a watch-dog—better than I would be, if anything.”
The result was, as may easily be imagined, that ’Lijah agreed to take up his post at the store at just half-past seven, and remain until Farley came, which would be before ten.
The old man made his way home through the darkening streets with many a delighted chuckle at his good luck. A chance to serve Mars’ George didn’t come every day. “He’s a-gwine ter trus’ me!” he said to himself over and over again.
The strong attachment between these two men, so far removed from each other in social position, but closely knit together by that brotherliness of humanity which reaches to a depth—or height—where there is neither rich nor poor, bond nor free,—this powerful attachment had begun at a summer hotel a year before. Farley had been walking idly about the reading-rooms and office, when he heard a cracked voice crooning softly to itself. Something in the tones attracted him, and he was interested enough to listen for the words of the song, for the tune told him nothing.