“Say, Boy! Do you want to hire out?”

Freed-Boy in Alabama. Frontispiece. See page [5.]

THE
FREED BOY IN ALABAMA.

BY
ANNE M. MITCHELL,
AUTHOR OF “MARTHA’S GIFT.”

“If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature.”

PHILADELPHIA:
PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION,
1334 Chestnut Street.

Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
WM. L. HILDEBURN, Treasurer,
in trust for the
PRESBYTERIAN PUBLICATION COMMITTEE,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Eastern District
of Pennsylvania.
Westcott & Thomson,
Stereotypers, Philada.

THE FREED BOY IN ALABAMA.

CHAPTER I.

“New are the leaves on the oaken spray,

New the blades of the silky grass;

Flowers that were buds but yesterday

Peep from the ground where’er I pass.”

Bryant.

IT was an April day in the South—not windy and blustering, with the remembrances of March still clinging about it, but warm and lovely, mild and balmy, with spring beauty and promise of good over everything. The grass was springing everywhere, and the buds on the trees were bursting into blossom, and one could gather tender leaves and delicate sprays of white and hold them with the tender, caressing touch which we give to all that heralds spring. It was a good day to breathe the soft, mild air, to be among the growing things and dismiss winter from the mind; and, above all, it was one of those days when the restless feeling we all have sometimes returns in full force, and the thought of coming life and energy in the natural world fills the mind with a longing to do something more than sit still and enjoy.

All this—not exactly in this form, but the substance of this—with a restless, unsatisfied feeling, was possessing and fast getting control of Tom Alson, as he sat on a box in front of a store in Huntsville, idly tapping one foot after the other against its wooden sides. He had anything but an ambitious, energetic look, but then Tom never showed his feelings, and any one gazing at him would hardly have imagined that at this very moment he was longing to go out into the world and “do something.”

Certainly the man who came up to him just then had very little idea of the lofty thought in which Tom was indulging, for he gave him only a hasty glance before he addressed him.

“Say, boy, want to hire out?” asked the man.

Tom started and roused himself: “I was not thinking of it, sir,” he replied.

“Well, think of it now, then; I am trying to find boys to work for Mr. Sutherland on his plantation, about twenty miles out. They are growing corn and cotton. I’d be glad to have you go; give you six dollars a month and board.”

“No, sir,” replied Tom; “I think I will not hire out this summer.”

“Oh think again! Six dollars a month is no mean pay, and I’ve a lot of Huntsville niggers going along.”

“No, sir,” replied Tom again, decidedly, and rising as he spoke, as if not wishing to continue the conversation.

“What’s to hinder you?” asked the man.

“I am going to school, sir,” returned the boy, knowing that this would put a stop to the urging; and it was successful, for the man, with a few coarse words about “niggers and education,” turned suddenly and walked away, and Tom, with his hands in his pockets, sauntered off in an opposite direction, whistling.

He came up to his home by and by, and found his sister Martha in a chair outside the door, busied with some sewing. He sat down on a step near and watched her swift-moving hand in silence for some minutes, with his eyes on her work and his thoughts a long way off.

“Has mother come back?” he asked, at length.

“Yes, Tom,” replied Martha, with a little sigh, “but she didn’t succeed in getting any work. I do not see how we are going to get along. I think I shall try to see if I can get something to do.”

“I was thinking of that, too,” said Tom. “There’s a man here to-day who wants hands to go twenty miles out. He wanted me, but I told him ‘No.’”

Martha stitched away in silence.

“I’d go,” said Tom, suddenly, “but there’s the school; I could not give that up.”

“Not for Jesus, Tom?” asked Martha, looking round with a little smile.

“Would it be for Jesus, Martha,” said Tom, earnestly, “to give up school and go to work, neglecting my education meanwhile?”

“Think about it, Tom, and remember what Paul did for Jesus.”

Tom did think. The conversation ceased between them entirely, and the fresh spring breezes came from the South, laden with the breath of flowers, and passed gently by the two seated before the cabin door, one of them so busy with his decision.

When Tom, at length, rose and moved off, Martha could not tell his thought, although she peered anxiously into his face to see if possible what lay there, but it was unmoved, and he did not meet her look of inquiry with any return, but passed out of the gate, swinging it after him, and walking off toward the quarter of the town where his father was at work. He looked very grave when the two came in together at dinner-time, and hurried off toward the school-room before his sister was ready. She watched him a little anxiously all the afternoon, but the grave, intent face did not once relax its gravity, and the lines of soberness remained even after the pleasant afternoon session came to a close. Martha waited for her brother some minutes, with the hope that she might have one of their customary talks on their way home, but he did not come away, so she went on alone.

It was not until an hour later, while she was busily weeding the little garden, that Tom came up and stopped at her side.

“Martha, I’m going,” he said, abruptly.

“Tom! why, Tom—going! when and what for,” she said, starting and turning round toward him.

“Going to-morrow, Martha, and for Jesus,” he replied, quietly.

Martha turned back again suddenly without remark, and industriously weeded the springing grass from around the young plants.

Tom waited several minutes, and then spoke again:

“Are you not glad of this, Martha?”

She dropped the shovel with which she had been working, turned toward him, and lifting her hands to her head in a nervous way, replied, with quivering lips:

“That I am glad, you know, but oh I shall lose my brother!”

Tom’s eyes fell and his mouth twitched.

“I’ve been to see Miss Mason,” he said, after a minute, “to bid her good-bye. She says I must send her a letter. That is a great blessing which we did not always have, Martha—we may write to each other. That is good.”

“Yes.” Martha knew it as well as Tom, and I think it was the thought of this more than almost anything else which served to keep them in some degree of cheerfulness during the remainder of his stay. It was not long, only so many short hours Martha almost counted the minutes. It was like Tom to act in a moment when the question of duty came home to him, and although Martha knew this, yet she had been surprised, after all, at his sudden acting upon her suggestion. What if Tom should sicken or be in any want so far from home?—for to Martha the distance seemed immense. Would she not then be sorry she had ever encouraged him? But those precious letters! How thankful she felt that she could write, and that though miles were between them, yet words could pass from one to the other!

How Tom felt no one knew. He hid his feelings always. Martha was the only one who ever had a glimpse, and she only now and then. He counted the cost at every step, yet still he had gone back to his acquaintance of the morning, and agreed with him to work on the plantation during the summer. His father had listened, too, when he proposed it, and although he would have liked to keep his boy at home, yet work was scarce, and he could not always find means to live; so Tom must go. He had taken leave of his teacher and the school-room quite calmly, to all appearance, and no one knew how hard the struggle was to give up all this for Jesus. Yet it was this thought which kept him up through it all, and watching Martha’s grave face as she bent over his box placing his things together, he longed to tell her his source of comfort. But perhaps he needed it himself more than she did, for to one of his disposition to go from home and mingle among strangers was very hard, very much against his will. Yet as he looked at it, he thought perhaps God had sent him just this trial to make him better, and that he might have something for him to do for his service in the country. And so his courage did not quite fail.

How his eyes lingered the next morning upon everything about his home, trying as he did to impress each little portion of the house-furnishing upon his memory! It seemed as if he could not lose sight of his sister Martha’s face. His eyes followed her everywhere. It was almost strange, the devoted affection which had sprung up between the two; and it was so hard, just as they were helping one another along the narrow way through the journey of life, to be obliged to part.

But it came, late in the afternoon—the parting—and was over, and Tom found himself in the car looking out at the country, green, and fresh, and beautiful, and trying to realize how long it would be before the familiar faces would be near him again. Of all Tom’s boy friends there was but one who was of this company, and he, although a school-mate, knew Tom only slightly. But he was alone too, and so after a while, seeing the empty seat beside Tom, he came and sat down.

“How do you think you’ll like it out there?” he asked, as Tom turned round.

“I have hardly thought,” replied Tom. “I do not know anything about it.”

“I can tell you a heap then. It’s a big plantation, with quarters for the hands not far from the house. The master lives in a big, white mansion, and has charge of the cotton and cornfields. My brother is there, and he says it’s a pretty good place. Pay is regular, and that’s the most, you know.”

“Where shall we stay? Do you know?” asked Tom.

“No, I don’t. I ’spects likely we’ll be quartered with some old auntie or other. I don’t much care. They have jolly times after hours—breakdowns and dances. Hi! it’s gay fun!”

Tom’s heart sank. He looked out of the window and saw the great trees with their tops just lighted with the rising moon, heard the shrill cry of the mocking-bird, and saw the fireflies lighting up the woods with a thousand tiny lamps. Cool the evening air came across his face, with the motion of the car hurrying on through one of the most glorious countries on which the sun shines. Tom saw it all, and loved it for the sake of Him who made it, but his heart was heavy with the grief of parting, the sting of poverty which sent him away from home, and the prospect before him. Very rebellious, very discontented, his thoughts were for a few minutes, until some old auntie going out with the company, and who had learned with the experience of years to leave her burden of care in His hands “who careth for us,” struck up a hymn, and as the voices one by one joined in with her, until the car was full of the melody which floated out upon the evening air among the moss-laden trees, Tom’s head sank and rested upon the seat in front, and the tears came—tears of penitence and joy—as he listened:

“Oh God’s got a plenty for all of his children—

Sit all around God’s table;

For God’s got plenty for all his children—

Sit all around God’s table.”

There was a prayer for help and courage as Tom listened, and after it was finished his head was lifted with new resolve. He was immediately attacked again by the boy at his side.

“You went to see Miss Mason yesterday, did you not?” he demanded.

“Yes,” replied Tom, with a softened remembrance of the words of kindliness and cheer given him by his teacher. “Yes, I did; I went to bid her good-bye. How did you know?”

“Because I went myself, and she told me you were of the company. She said you would help me get along.”

“I will, all that I can,” replied Tom.

“She said you had got religion. Is that so?”

Tom gave an instant’s glance out into the night again. “It is ‘known of me,’ then,” he thought; and finally said, with a little smile which showed more than anything else could have done the value that religion was to him, “I love the Lord Jesus.”

“I don’t think you and I will do for each other,” said the boy, a little mystified by Tom’s smile and moving uneasily in his seat. “I am up to all sorts of shines.”

“I think we’ll do very nicely for one another,” replied Tom, brightly, seeing, with joy, part of the Master’s work already at his hands. “We are school-mates, you know, and both love to study; that ought to make us friends if nothing else does. We will work together in the evenings.”

The boy roused instantly, and they fell into earnest talk of the ways and means for study, the lessons they had already learned, the remembrance of happy school-hours, and a thousand other things which to these boys, who until lately had never known the joys of school-life, were the brightest spots in their existence.

So the miles were passed over, and the beautiful Southern country left behind: the short journey—so long to many—was accomplished, and at a little station-house, within about a mile of the plantation, they were at length set down, fifty souls in all, and took up their line of march. Tom and his friend Jimmy Harrison walked on silently with the rest. The final landing at the station had not been pleasant. The agent who had them in charge was not kind, and the people were feeling very unpleasantly. Tom had rather better control of himself than the rest, for with the first shock and rebellious thoughts, as the words of harshness and anger fell upon his ears, his soul went up to God in a prayer for patience and strength, to keep down any feelings of unkindness. Then turning to Jimmy, whose quick temper had been roused by the rough treatment, with a few gentle kindly words of encouragement he put his arm through his, and led him forward in the line of march.

And long afterward, when the summer breezes would bring to him the cool fragrant breath of plants and growing flowers, he was always reminded of this first night, when the work which he longed to do for Jesus commenced; and knowing the blessed influence which followed all through that long, hard summer, he ever after thanked God and took courage.

CHAPTER II.

“Trials must and will befall,

But with humble faith to see

Love inscribed upon them all,

This is happiness to me.”

TOM and Jimmy were quartered with an old colored woman called Aunt Margaret, one of the family servants, who in her old age had been furnished with a tiny brick house near the mansion, in which she had lived some years by herself. The house contained three rooms, two on the lower floor and one above stairs, and the master, who had dismissed the agent upon their arrival, and superintended the settling of the people himself, placed the two boys, Tom and Jimmy, in this upper room. Tom was greatly pleased on account of the quiet which he thought would result from their removal from the cabins or quarters of the rest of the hands, and pictured to himself many happy hours of study in the room up-stairs.

But he discovered his mistake very soon. Aunt Margaret was very fond of company, and the cabin was the common resort of half the working-people on the place, and study, to say nothing of quiet, was out of the question.

It was on the second evening after his arrival, at the close of the first day’s work in the field, that Tom took out his books. How sadly and mournfully he had missed his school all day, no one knew but himself; and now he took his books and slate with no small degree of pleasure.

“What’s the chile gwine to do?” asked the old woman, peering at him over her spectacles.

“Going to read and study a while by your candle, Aunt Margaret, if I may,” he replied.

“Laws, chile! you may do as you likes, for all me,” she returned with a shake of her head; “but it ’pears like there’ll be mighty little quiet here to-night.”

Tom soon found it so, to his utter dismay. First, Jimmy came in with one or two others, talking loud and making a confusion.

“Are you going to study with me to-night?” asked Tom as he came up to the table and glanced at the books.

“No, I’m not that,” replied the boy; “it’s larks I’m after, and if you wasn’t a stupid, you wouldn’t either.”

Tom was disappointed, and bent his head over his books silently, and tried to work. But there was no study to be had there. The room gradually filled with women and men, and attention to books was impossible. He gave it up at last, but not before he had two or three laughing remarks addressed to him. He closed his book and rested his head wearily on his hand. He concluded he would go up-stairs. “I am not used to such company as this,” he thought with a new feeling creeping into his heart. “I will go away, and just show them all that I am made of a different sort from them.”

Then he suddenly bethought him how wrongly he was acting in thus putting himself above his fellows; so he immediately raised his head and joined in the conversation.

It was no pleasure to him, but he stayed half an hour, and then, seeing he could go without giving offence to any one, he gladly gathered up his books and went off up-stairs. A candle was a luxury not to be indulged in, but as Tom ascended the stairs he saw that the moonlight was pouring in through the one window, so that the room was quite light. He put his books away, and seating himself on the floor under the window, which was very low, he leaned his head on his arm upon the sill and began to think.

It was a long, sober thought. With quick understanding he saw very soon what a battle the summer would be to him, and how hard it would be for him to accomplish his aims. He was resolved upon one thing: study he must and would, if every leisure minute of the noontide hour was given up to it. Then, again, he must do some work for Jesus. The summer must not yet pass without some deed accomplished whereby his Master should be glorified. He realized that to this end he must make himself familiar with the hands about the place—not only with those who came from Huntsville, but also with the old family servants. The dangers, the temptations accompanying such a course, if they occurred to him at all, did not present themselves in their dangerous form—the temptation that while leading others he might himself be led away—that his faith might fail or his courage droop. The whole armor of God was the only thing which could keep him from all the ills and troubles thus presented. He did not know how much trial was before him, but he did know that he needed a stronger arm than his own to lead him, and he looked above for strength and shelter.

The trial came first in a most unexpected direction. Jimmy, in all good humor, reported that Tom “had got religion,” and to those to whom he told it it was a very bad recommendation, and they held themselves aloof; and not only that, but they would amuse themselves with sundry jokes at his expense. Tom was astonished and wounded. He could not imagine where they could have heard it, and it prevented, for a time, the advancement he wished to make in their regard. He tried his best. By every effort in his power he endeavored to gain friends among this new company, and in a few instances he succeeded immediately; in others not so well; and often it was impossible to have a talk with those whose friendship he wished most to gain, on account of their leisure-time being so much occupied with dances in the great barn.

The studying was scarcely better at first. It was very hard between his bites of corn-bread in the noon-spell to give his attention to looking out words in the dictionary, or mastering what seemed to him such profound problems in arithmetic. There was an hour before supper which was his own, and that was devoted, half to study and half to Bible-reading. It was very hard work to stand firmly by his resolution, and go after his books at the close of a warm, tiresome day, and study so persistently just when the twilight was growing beautiful and the people were all resting before their cabin doors. Sometimes he was quite discouraged, and almost determined to give up.

One afternoon, when he had been perhaps two weeks on the plantation, he was coming home from work just at sunset, with his jacket thrown over his arm, warm and tired with his day’s labor, and rather dreading than otherwise the hour of study which was before him, when suddenly, as he passed near the mansion, the master stepped from the doorway and accosted him. Tom stopped and waited for what he might have to say.

“Is your name Tom Alson?” he asked, feeling in his coat pocket and drawing out a number of letters.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, his heart bounding with a hope he hardly dared to own.

“Well, then, I’ve a letter for you,” he said, selecting one from a number. He scanned it curiously for a few minutes, and then gave it to the boy, adding, “Can you read writing?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Tom; “I can read writing, and write myself. I am much obliged to you.”

“Not at all,” answered Mr. Sutherland, carelessly. “Do you know who wrote that direction?”

Tom looked at the letter which his fingers held so lovingly, and replied with a very bright face,

“Yes, sir—my teacher.”

“Is she white?” inquired the master.

“Oh yes, sir! She is a Northern lady.”

“Well, go off and enjoy your letter,” said Mr. Sutherland, dismissing him, and turning away pleased with the eager look of welcome the boy had given the letter.

And Tom, glad to be so dismissed, ran off to his seat under the trees, leaving his books to take care of themselves while he read the precious letter—the first one he had ever received in his life.

There were two, he found, when he opened the envelope. One with all the dainty prettiness of French paper and stamped “M,” in the delicate handwriting of Miss Mason, and the other in the round, school-girl hand of Martha. Ah! how every word of those two letters went to Tom’s heart! Martha’s was full of home news, every item well expressed, because her heart was in this the first letter written to her brother Tom. It was penned in good spirits, for her mother had been able to obtain a few days’ work.

“I am looking for a place for myself,” she wrote, “and hope to get one, but I have not seen any opportunity as yet, and sometimes I almost wish I had gone with you.”

“I am glad she didn’t,” thought Tom.

“Our Sunday-school has been so pleasant lately,” she continued, “I only wish you could be here. Mr. Allen gave us some beautiful illuminated texts last Sunday. I had been thinking about you all the afternoon, and had been wishing you could have heard Mr. Allen’s talk, and I am afraid I was feeling a little wrong and disappointed that you could not be with us, when Mr. Allen laid upon my desk my little text. I did not wish any more, Tom; I just believed what it said, and kept still. Now I am going to send it to you, and if you have—as I have no doubt you often do, good as you are—any longings for home that grow too strong, then here is my text;” and Tom read in red and gold letters on a bit of card which fell from the letter:

“Trust in the Lord, and wait patiently for him.”

Tom’s eyes were blinded for several minutes, so that he could scarcely see to read Miss Mason’s kind note. It told him just what he wanted most to know—all the school news; how Martha was getting on, what new songs they were learning, and how his own class was prospering. “And knowing that you had your books with you,” she added, “and thinking you might have time for study, I have marked on a slip of paper all that your class has learned, and a few directions which will help you to study for yourself.

“And now,” she concluded, “I do not know that you need counsel, but let me just remind you that you are a soldier of Jesus Christ, and that it is a part of a soldier’s duty to see that his comrades are saved from danger; so, my dear boy, try and bring back to God some who are still outside the fold. We all have work to do for Jesus, you know.”

Tom’s heart rested. He did not see how he could be sorrowful with these two bits of cheer coming to him when he felt so weary and heartsick. He was not so any more—that night, at any rate—and the letters were shown to many admiring eyes. Jimmy opened his very wide.

“Had a letter from Miss Mason?” exclaimed he. “My sakes! let’s read;” but Tom could not do that.

“I’d rather not, Jimmy,” said he, looking at Jimmy’s fingers and thinking of the delicate paper, “but I’ll tell you all she said.”

He told so much about school and the work she had sent him that Jimmy’s slumbering ambition was aroused.

“I declare, Tom,” said he, “I haven’t studied a bit since I came; have you?”

“Yes,” replied Tom, “a good deal.”

“Are you up with your class?”

“Yes,” returned Tom.

“Oh dear! and I promised to study with you. I’ll begin this very night.”

And he did, and added thereby for a short time much to Tom’s happiness. For a while he gave his evenings pretty steadily, but at noon he was inexorable.

“No, sir,” he said—“noon is for rest.”

The next day Tom was very busy shelling corn for the planting. He had stationed himself on the doorstep of the barn, and as he shelled and the kernels fell from the cob, he thought of his two letters; and suddenly thinking of some task Miss Mason assigned him, and not being able distinctly to recall it, he took out her letter and laid it open near him, and tried to puzzle out the meaning of an example she had given him, continuing his work while he did so. As he was still thus engaged, the noon-bell struck, and throwing down his ear of corn, he drew a pencil and paper out of his pocket and proceeded carefully to write out the problem. So busy was he that he did not perceive that any one had come up until his master’s voice spoke.

“What are you busy about, Tom?” he asked.

He looked up suddenly, and then rose out of respect to his master. “I was copying out an example my teacher sent me,” he said.

“Is that your writing? Let me see it.” He reached for the paper on which Tom had been working, and eyed it narrowly.

“Would you like to see my teacher’s letter, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, I should,” he replied; so Tom produced it, and it was read very attentively. “How long did you go to school?” he asked, as he finished it and laid it back into Tom’s hand.

“Two years, sir.”

“And can you do all those examples your teacher has given you?”

“I think so, sir. I am trying them now.”

“Is this the way you always pass your noon-time rest?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Tom.

“The world has turned about,” said the master, with a curious, puzzled look, and then he turned about himself. But he had not gone three steps before he came back again.

“Say, my boy,” he said, “come up to the house after supper to-night. Tell Aunt Dinah, the cook, that master said you were to come to the library. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Tom; “I will come, sir.”

So the master went away, and Tom returned to his task, so intent and interested that it never entered into his mind to conjecture why he was wanted in the evening at the mansion.

CHAPTER III.

“O little hearts! that throb and beat

With such impatient, feverish heat,

Such limitless and strong desires!”

Longfellow.

TOM found, however, when he told the incident to the people who were assembled in Aunt Margaret’s cabin when he came in at night, that it created quite a sensation. The idea of any one of them being sent for into the master’s library was a wonder, and Tom found himself a lion among them. He did not feel the least elated, however. He only feared, when he came to think of it, that his master’s discovery of his knowledge would lead to his dismissal, and he had felt as if he was just beginning to gain the friendship of his fellow-workers which he so much wished to have. Therefore it was with rather a grave face and sober step that he walked in the gathering twilight toward the mansion. Aunt Dinah was standing on the back porch, throwing corn and feed to the chickens, who, having grown tame from long acquaintance, were crowding close around her, in order to get each one a full share of the evening meal.

Tom came up and touched his cap. “Auntie,” said he, “has Mr. Sutherland finished his supper?”

Now Aunt Dinah was crabbed, and she determined, when she saw him coming, that she would send him off rather quicker than he came, but the touched cap and voice of respect went to just the right place in her heart. “Sure, honey, he’s done supper,” she said. “What did you want with him?”

“He bade me come up after tea,” replied Tom, “and he said you would show me the way to the library.” Tom rose higher in Aunt Dinah’s regard immediately. In her own words, “If marster wanted one of them field hands in the lib’ry, it meant sumthin’, sure enough.”

Therefore, with a little smoothing touch to her apron, she led the way through the matted hall, and knocked at one of the doors which opened from it. “This is the library,” she said, and so left him.

A little girl came and opened the door—a sweet-looking, black-eyed child of about seven years old—and held it open as he stepped in. Mr. Sutherland lifted his eyes from a bundle of papers, and seeing who it was, said, “Ah! here you are. Just sit down a few minutes and I shall be able to attend to you.”

Tom seated himself quietly, glad of the few minutes given him to examine the pretty room. Called a library out of compliment, it was more like a tiny drawing-room, so many little things of elegance were gathered here. The taste of the owner had full play, and showed itself rather too fond of gilt and bright colors, but at the same time toned down by a few Parian figures and antique vases, which showed where the wife had been at work. Tom looked at her, after his survey of the room, with eyes which certainly did not lack admiration. A delicate, fair woman, with the languid manner characteristic of her countrywomen, but with an air of refinement and culture resting upon every move of her hand and turn of her head. A vision of beauty such as Tom had never seen before. The little girl who had opened the door for him was seated at her mother’s feet, very industriously engaged in undressing a large doll, and at the same time singing softly to herself—

“Jesus loves me—this I know,

For the Bible tells me so.”

There she would stop, hum the remainder of the tune, and then go back to the beginning again. Tom wondered whether she knew the rest of the verse, and was longing to tell her, when his master called him, and he ceased to listen. “Tom,” said he, “I find you can write much better than I can—(my education was neglected somehow)” he added in parenthesis, moving uneasily in his chair, with a glance at his wife—“and I have much trouble in making the merchants comprehend the accounts. I thought perhaps you might know how to decipher them, and in that case I thought I would employ you to copy them, spending say an hour every evening. Of course you will be paid,” he added.

Mrs. Sutherland looked up from her delicate work, and eyed the boy as he bent over the papers Mr. Sutherland laid before him.

“Can this boy read?” she asked, indolently.

“Yes,” replied her husband.

“What does he do about the place?”

“He is a field hand,” he replied.

“He had better confine his attention to corn and cotton than serve you as an amanuensis. You are spoiling the hands,” she added, impatiently.

Tom’s eyes never wandered from his paper, but he lost not a word, and the firm set of lips showed him no indifferent listener.

“Can you read these?” asked the master with no reply to his wife’s observation.

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Well, then, let me hear them.”

Tom made a Clerk.

Freed-Boy in Alabama. Page [49].

So Tom read aloud the month’s report of the number of hands employed, the wages of each, the amount of work performed and the expenses of the place. It was all correctly done, and then the two fell to work—the master arranging the books for Tom’s future work, and the boy copying. There was nothing very elegant about the writing, but it was a round, even hand, very plain and distinct. Yet as he wrote Tom was troubled. He wondered if his Master knew that these business affairs were all fully understood by him. Mr. Sutherland’s books were very simple, and, with Tom’s late knowledge of arithmetic, very easily understood. He wondered if his master realized that one of his field hands comprehended all the business of the plantation.

By and by, when for a few minutes both came to a standstill, Tom spoke:

“Mr. Sutherland, do you know that I understand all this work I am copying.”

“Do you mean to tell me you understand the losses and gains during the month?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Sutherland looked annoyed and perplexed, and his wife laughed and remarked that he had better take her advice and send the boy back to his cotton.

“I would not care, Bertha,” he replied, “if I were only sure I could trust the boy.”

“Of what are you afraid, Mr. Sutherland?” asked Tom, with a little fire in his eyes.

“Only of your reporting the state of affairs at Aunt Margaret’s gatherings,” he replied.

“I shall not do that, sir,” said Tom, firmly.

“But the question is,” said Mr. Sutherland, “whether I can trust your word.”

Tom’s eyes certainly flashed fire for a moment; all his old spirit of unrestrained passion ran through him, sending the blood throbbing all over his body, trembling on his lips, dancing in his eyes, gathering on his forehead, and causing the fingers that held the pen to close upon it like a vice. This lasted for a minute, and then remembering his love for the Lord Jesus, and at the same time that the master could not know how well he could be trusted, the fingers relaxed their grasp, the brow cleared, the lips unbent and formed a smile, and the eyes dropped.

“I hope I may be trusted, sir. Will you try me?” he asked, quietly.

“Yes, I will,” replied Mr. Sutherland, who had watched the play of feature, and understood a little, although not half, of the boy’s thought.

So they fell to work again—the little battle over and the victory won, and a battle-song of triumph in Tom’s heart, for “he that ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.”

By and by, when the minutes had made an hour and more, the books were closed. The master’s little girl had come round near her father’s chair, and stood there holding on to the arm of the chair, swinging to and fro, and singing, “Jesus loves me,” as Tom and Mr. Sutherland finished the evening’s work with arrangements to resume it at the same hour on the morrow.

Then Tom turned to the little girl:

“Miss Lillie, do you know the rest of that verse?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, stopping short; “do you?”

“Yes,” replied Tom; “I know all the hymn.”

“Well, then, sing it,” she demanded.

Tom looked toward Mrs. Sutherland, but her eyes were turned away, so he looked down into the waiting face upturned toward him, and softly and gently gave the sweet words:

“Jesus loves me—this I know,

For the Bible tells me so;

Little ones to him belong;

They are weak, but he is strong.

Yes, Jesus loves me.

“Jesus loves me—he who died:

Heaven’s gate to open wide;

He will wash away my sin,

Let his little child come in.

Yes, Jesus loves me.

“Jesus loves me—he will stay

Close beside me all the way;

If I love him when I die,

He will take me home on high.

Yes, Jesus love me.”

She had kept her black eyes fixed upon his face throughout the hymn, and when he had finished, seeing his earnestness, she asked:

“Do you love Jesus?”

How it startled him! He glanced quickly toward the two listeners, but Mrs. Sutherland had not changed her position, and the master’s eyes were on the floor and his face unreadable.

It was a pity they were not looking at him, for as his eyes came back to the questioner and saw how she was awaiting his reply, all the new love and allegiance flashed back upon him, and his reply was given with a smile that was worth seeing.

“Oh yes, I love the Lord Jesus.”

Then he rose and moved toward the door, but his bare feet on the carpet made no sound. He stopped at the threshold and waited for a word, but none came; so he said: “Good-evening, Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland.” The mistress dismissed him with a little bow, without raising her head, and the master roused and replied,

“Ah! going? Well, good-night. I’ll see you to-morrow.”

So Tom went out into the night, clear and beautiful, with innumerable stars shining down out of heaven, and the rich earth lying in the beauty of its early spring dress all about him. Down at the quarters he could see sparkling lights from the fires which the open doors left in view. From the little log-barn, long ago out of use, came the voices of the people who were holding a meeting there. He listened a moment, but he could not catch the words, so he walked nearer, and stopped beneath the tree where he had read his precious letters, and there the words came distinctly to his ear, borne to him by the sweet evening breeze:

“My good Lord’s been here,

Has been here, has been here:

My good Lord’s been here,

And blessed my soul, and gone.

Seeker, where were you

When my good Lord was here?”

“My good Lord’s been here,” said Tom softly to himself, and then he kneeled down and thanked God humbly and gratefully both for the opportunity he had given him, and also for this night’s victory. No pride of the task assigned him entered his mind; and when, after curious questioning in Aunt Margaret’s cabin as to the result of his visit to the mansion, he told them that Mr. Sutherland wanted some writing done by him, he had no pride in the announcement; and when he saw, as he could not help seeing, how he rose immediately in the estimation of his questioners, he was very glad, only because it might help in his work for Jesus.

It was Tom’s plan to start a little Sunday-school after a while. He felt very timid about it, and although he had taken no decided step in the matter, he had gradually won his way to the hearts of the people on the place, and by frequent acts of kindness was becoming rather popular among them. As I said before, this was very dangerous. He might forget for whom he was working, and learn to think only of himself. This could not be yet, however, for he still looked to Jesus for help and strength, and while he did so he was secure.

As soon as it was noised abroad that the master needed Tom’s services to write for him every night, the respect for Tom increased, and put him in the way of more work. The people who, like Tom, had come to the plantation for the summer, came to him to have letters written and messages sent to their absent friends, so Tom’s hands began to be quite full; and always intent as he was upon his work for Jesus, he would send a message or a bit of advice or counsel to the friends of those for whom he wrote, and so his influence became widespread. How much pleasure he took in answering the two letters which had brought him so much comfort was best known to himself, but his face was brighter and his step lighter for days afterward.

There was one face, however, which was steadily set against his growing popularity from the first. This was Jimmy, his school-mate in Huntsville and his room-mate here. After a few evenings, he gave up study and withdrew himself from his friend more and more. He knew almost as much as Tom, but he cared nothing at all about it, except to be envious of his friend’s position. “I can write as well as he,” he would often say, but when asked to send a letter, he would always refuse. So he continually boasted of the amount he knew, but would never show his knowledge. Their rooming together had been pleasant at first, but of late there had been scarcely a word between them. Jimmy shunned him on every occasion, and when forced into his company would say sneering things with regard to Tom’s “great learning,” as he called it. Yet still Tom was uniformly kind and polite, and when those around would silence Jimmy in some one of his insolent speeches, his replies came always mild and gentle. This conduct gained for him more friends and more kindly attention to the words he spoke for Jesus than anything else could have done. It does not take learned minds to know when those around them live according to their profession.

Not a word of all this reached Martha; and when, months after, he told her of the struggle of these days, she knew that only the strength given him from above had enabled him to bear it. No, the letters that came as a piece of freshness and unbounded pleasure to Martha were full of whatever Tom could find of love and cheer to put in them. Of his efforts in the work for Jesus he told her, with a longing to do more, but there was no mention of trials or difficulties, and the letters were read and put carefully away with just the feeling of joy and thankfulness which Tom had striven for when he wrote them.

CHAPTER IV.

“Leave God to order all thy ways,

And hope in him, whate’er betide;

Thou’lt find him in the evil days:

An all-sufficient strength and guide

Who trusts in God’s unchanging love,

Builds on a rock that naught can move.”

George Newmark’s Hymn.

ABOUT this time, and for some weeks later, Tom longed continually to commence a more decided service for his Master. But there were several things that came in the way: First, after his long day’s work in the fields, his evening writing, although only for an hour, was very wearying, and often when he reached the house at night he could not, from fatigue, either study or talk with those who nightly gathered there. Then, too, he felt that if he should undertake a regular Sunday-school, it would meet with opposition from the master, Mr. Sutherland. He had been very kind to him so far, and paid him liberally for his evening work, but Tom had never seen the little girl since that first night, and somehow he connected the little hymn he had taught her and her absence together. Then his pupils had no books, and it seemed to him that whatever other people might do, he could not teach a Sunday-school without books. With it all he became weary and very homesick, longing for the sight of a familiar face. His face grew more sober and his step heavier. He strove against it and tried to feel thankful, but it was hard indeed, and although his friends noticed it less than he imagined, yet Tom was not happy.

One night, however, the opportunity for which he had been watching and waiting so long came to him when he least expected it. He turned homeward from his writing on this particular evening very weary and heartsick. Had Martha seen him, she would have known that all was not well with him, but he knew that he was alone, so he allowed his despondent feelings full play.

As he lifted the latch of the door and heard the voices within, he heaved a little sigh, wished for an hour’s quiet study with Martha, and then resolutely stepped within the room.

There were a number gathered as usual, and they were very busily talking about something, yet they all looked up when Tom came in.

“Ah! here he is now,” some one remarked.

“Tom,” said one of the men, whose voice he had heard as he came in, “we’ve been talking about you. You see, we’ve come to the conclusion that you knows a heap more’n the rest of us, and we’s been studyin’ as to how maybe you’d be willin’ to teach us a little of nights, after you gets through up to the great house.”

“I would very gladly teach you any time, Uncle Silas,” replied Tom, thinking that any hold on their hearts was a gain, “but the trouble here, just as in another plan of mine, is that we have no books.”

“But some of us has got books, honey,” said one old woman, “and we’ll lend ’em to those as has none of their own. Now there’s eight of us here to-night, and plenty more that wants to come. What do you say?”

What do you think he said, reader? Can you imagine how his face brightened, or can you hear the heartiness of his consent to their plan? This new work, sent him, as he believed, by God, was entered upon immediately with a great deep joy and a silent thanksgiving in his heart. He gave his first lesson that very night, listening to the slowly-spelled words of those who were proud to say they had commenced to learn, and to the rest showing the first letters of the alphabet. He did not confine himself to these, however, but as he went the rounds from one to another, he would lead the talk from some word in the book to something he had heard or read elsewhere, putting them in a way, while they were learning their letters, to store their minds from his with many better things.

“Such an opportunity to work for Jesus!” his heart cried exultingly, and so when the clock struck nine, as he told them they had learned enough for one evening, he added that “he would like to read to them before they went.”

They were very well content; so he opened his Bible and read to them—with such an interest in the words himself that the listening was pleasant—the story of the Good Samaritan; and then, closing the book, he repeated it again in words which were better understood by them, enforcing the lesson which is among the most beautiful taught by our Saviour in his parables: “Go and do thou likewise.”

Then he dismissed them, saying that on the next evening they should meet again, and that they might bring as many of their friends as chose to come.

“My house used to be a place of frolic, honey,” Aunt Margaret said, as they went out, “but now it is a place of education.”

And Tom, happy boy! went up-stairs and kneeled beside his bed with his heart full of thanks. They could not be expressed, but a tear or two told all he could not say, and Jimmy’s rather spiteful remark, that “he supposed he felt too big for anything,” fell on his ears as lightly as the summer’s rain upon the moist soil. Although his head throbbed with the effort of the day, his field-work in the burning sun and the double task of the evening, yet his waking thoughts were as sweet as his sleep, and that was most calm and peaceful.

It so happened that, a day or two after, Mr. Sutherland took him away from his regular work in the field, and sent him into the barn to receive the loads of hay which were being brought in from the field. Tom was always glad of these occasional changes, because they rested him from more fatiguing work, and often gave him a few minutes in which to study. He brought his Bible and his arithmetic with him when he came out this morning, and it so happened that he found leisure to give them attention, for the field from which the hay was being brought was at a considerable distance, and it took some time for them to come with the loads. During one of these leisure times he had seated himself on the step of the great door at the back of the barn, and was intent upon his Bible, when he heard some child’s voice singing, and looking up he saw, just coming into the barn at the other end, Lillie Sutherland, whom he had not seen since the first evening he spent at the house. She saw him just as he looked up, and stopped both her walk and her music, and stood looking at him.

She was a pretty little creature to see, but Tom did not wait for that.

“Miss Lillie, can’t you come here and see me?” asked he.

She shook her head, but stood still with her eyes still fixed upon him, and then suddenly stepped very quickly forward.

“Oh, are you the boy that writes for papa?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss Lillie,” replied Tom; “do you remember me?”

“Certainly I do. Sing ‘Jesus loves me.’”

So Tom, amused at her manner, but very well content to do as she asked, sung the hymn through to a very attentive listener; but to his astonishment, when he had finished she asked him the same question as once before.

“Do you love Jesus?”

“Yes,” replied Tom—adding quietly, “do you?”

“Yes,” she returned; “I cannot help it, because he is so kind; but mamma does not like it, nor papa, very much.”

Tom was not astonished, only grieved, but he said as calmly as before, “That makes no difference.”

“Ought I to love Jesus just the same, and pray to him just the same, if mamma does not like it?”

“What has Jesus done for you?” asked Tom.

“He died for me,” she replied, as if it were a needless question.

“Yes,” replied Tom, with a smile, turning over the leaves of his Bible, “he died for you and me.”

“Well, what then?” asked the child, waiting to see what was coming next, but getting no word.

“Why,” said Tom, looking up, “I think when anybody has died for me, I can never do enough for them if I work all my life.”

She stood for several minutes after that, with her eyes away out in the green fields, and then she said suddenly:

“Does God love you just as well as he does me, when you are black and I am white?”

Tom’s lip took a sorrowful curve for an instant, and then he replied,

“Just as well;” and the words were very decided.

She gave him another good look out of her great black eyes, and then seating herself on the step, she said:

“Read.”

So he opened his Bible and read to her the story of the crucifixion. It needed no comment or simpler rendering, for the story, as it ever does and ever will, made instant impress on the heart and mind of the listener. Did you ever try to imagine what the feelings of the apostles must have been when they wrote those four sublime gospels? What a work of intermingled joy and pain it must have been!

“Now, Miss Lillie,” said Tom, when he had finished, “if you can read, I want you to go home and read this over for yourself, and then think whom you ought to love.”

“What shall I do then?” asked the child, as if she already surmised the result of the reading.

“Remember this one verse, and if I ever see you again, I shall ask you whether you have done as it commands: ‘If God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.’”

She repeated it two or three times after him, and then stood quietly until the sound of voices reached her; and then, with one quick glance in the direction from which they came, she sprang through the door, out across the yard toward the back of the house. Up through the front gate in the opposite direction came the great load, and Tom received the hay, standing in the upper loft of the barn.

And so it was that, after thinking over the interview, and sorrowing that the religion he loved was to some hedged about with so many difficulties, when he gathered his class about him that night, and looked around upon them, feeling that he need not be afraid to speak for Jesus here, he felt most devoutly thankful in his heart for the liberty which is ours when Christ has made us free.

The interest manifested by his pupils was wonderful. Old gray-headed men bent over their spelling-books and tried hard to decipher the words, looking up into the youthful face that watched them as to one above themselves, because to him had been granted a privilege which was not theirs. As the days advanced this did not lessen in the least; if anything, it seemed to increase. It was a beautiful thing to see, and to any one who felt an interest in the welfare of these neglected souls a peep into this tiny school-room was worth going far to see. Tom often wished Miss Mason could be there. He tried to say as little in his home letters about his own connection with it as he well could, but he knew not what a happy sense of duty done they contained in those days. His teacher used to read them over, and say it was sweet refreshment in her weary work—this boy’s good service for his Lord, and the utter simplicity and yet full gladness with which he wrote of it.

It was joy, yet the letters home were the best part of it. There were hours abroad and at home when the work was all done—house, field, and school tasks all completed—when the pressure on Tom’s mind seemed more than he could bear. That which lay heaviest was the care he felt over these souls who for five or six hours every week were committed to his care. Teach them he did, well and faithfully, but it was the work for Jesus which he was in constant fear that he should neglect. He grew so morbid over it that whenever he heard a man in the field swear or speak wrongly, he always questioned whether if he, Tom, had done his duty this would have happened. His success was far beyond his knowledge. He was so constantly in the habit of dropping a word for Jesus, because “out of the abundance of his heart his mouth spake,” that the people learned to expect that when they came to him in odd minutes for assistance in their tasks, there would be a word of holy cheer given them before they went away. They learned to have a strange reverence for this boy. It was some little time before Tom discovered that Mr. Sutherland knew of all this, but the master had heard the boy’s name in so many directions that at length he became interested to know how far his popularity extended. A few inquiries gave him all he wanted—enough to astonish him at any rate—and then Tom heard of it.

One day at noon Tom stood in the field, leaning against the branch of a tree, resting himself and softly singing, when up came one of his evening scholars with an appeal for help.

“I knowed you knowed,” he said, apologetically, “so I brought it to find out.”

Tom took it with a little weary sigh, which he did not allow to reach his lips, and gave the required help. As he handed back the book he asked, with a smile,

“How are you getting on now, Uncle Gilbert?”

“Only toler’ble, Tom,” he returned; “old feller’s aches and pains right smart bad sometimes.”

“The Lord Jesus will take the pain away, because you will not feel it when you are bearing it for him. Have you asked him, uncle?”

“I reckon, Tom, the Lord thinks old Gil no ’count.”

“You are as useful as I am, Uncle Gilbert, and I once asked God for patience, and he gave me enough to last me through a long illness. Look to him, uncle.”

So Uncle Gilbert went away, and after a few minutes’ very grave thought, Tom turned around to take up his hoe and found his master at his elbow. His hand was at his cap in an instant.

“You do your teaching at all hours of the day, Tom?” he said, pleasantly.

“Yes, sir, they are anxious to learn,” replied Tom; and then, gathering courage, he added, “I have been wanting to ask you for a long time whether you had any objection to the school which I hold every evening at Aunt Margaret’s.”

“No, not in the least,” replied Mr. Sutherland, “although I must say I was surprised to find that you had undertaken it, when I knew you had your hands full already.”

“They wanted, sir, and I knew how I used to want when I could not have. I could not refuse.”

“I sometimes think,” said Mr. Sutherland slowly, with his eyes on his fingers, which were chipping off pieces of bark from the tree against which Tom leaned—“I sometimes think that we are just beginning to understand your people.”

He got a very deep look out of the dark eyes in reply, but that was all.

“I came over here,” he continued after a moment, “to say to you that I think you had better leave your field-work altogether, and devote your days to my books and your evenings to your school. You are doing too much.”