Harry and me got one,
for sartin!"
"Ah, you black rascals, I knew you had one somewhere. Where did you
get it? That's some of Miss Franconia's doings."
"Can't tell you, mas'r, whar I got him; but he don't stop my hoein'
corn, for' true."
Franconia had observed Harry's tractableness, and heard him wish for
a Bible, that he might learn to read from it,--and she had secretly
supplied him with one. Two years Harry and Daddy Bob had spent hours
of the night in communion over it; the latter had learned to read
from it, the former had imbibed its great truths. The artless girl
had given it to them in confidence, knowing its consolatory
influences and that they, with a peculiar firmness in such cases,
would never betray her trust. Bob would not have refused his master
any other request; but he would never disclose the secret of Miss
Franconia giving it.
"Well, my old faithful," said Marston, "we want you to put the sprit
into Harry; we want to hear a sample of his preaching. Now, Harry,
you can begin; give it big eloquence, none of the new fashion
preaching, give us the old plantation break-down style."
The negro's countenance assumed a look indicative of more than his
lips dare speak. Looking upward pensively, he replied,--"Can't do
dat, mas'r; he ain't what do God justice; but there is something in
de text,--where shall I take 'em from?"
"Ministers should choose their own; I always do," interrupted Deacon
Rosebrook.
Daddy Bob, touching Harry on the arm, looks up innocently,
interposes his knowledge of Scripture.
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