“Think, too, of what a noble work he is doing.  It brings about a reconciliation between the east and west plantations, for which we have been hoping for years.  You really oughtn’t to lay a straw in his way.”

“He’s a sneaking, insidious, old scoundrel.”

“Such poor encouragement from his mistress for a worthy old man, who only needs rest!”

“George!” cried Mrs. Marston, and she sank down in tears, which turned to convulsive laughter as her husband put his arm about her and whispered, “He is showing the true Christian spirit.  Don’t you think we’d better call Manette and see if she consents?  She is one of his lambs, you know.”

“Oh, George, George, do as you please.  If the horrid girl consents, I wash my hands of the whole affair.”

“You know these old men have been learning such a long while.”

By this time Mrs. Marston was as much amused as her husband.  Manette was accordingly called and questioned.  The information was elicited from her that she loved “Brothah Simon” and wished to marry him.

“‘Love laughs at age,’” quoted Mr. Marston again when the girl had been dismissed.  Mrs. Marston was laughingly angry, but speechless for a moment.  Finally she said:  “Well, Manette seems willing, so there is nothing for us to do but to consent, although, mind you, I do not approve of this foolish marriage, do you hear?”

After a while the old man returned for his verdict.  He took it calmly.  He had expected it.  The disparity in the years of him and his betrothed did not seem to strike his consciousness at all.  He only grinned.

“Now look here, Uncle Simon,” said his master, “I want you to tell me how you, an old, bad-looking, half-dead darky won that likely young girl.”

The old man closed one eye and smiled.

“Mastah, I don’ b’lieve you looks erroun’ you,” he said.  “Now, ’mongst white folks, you knows a preachah ‘mongst de ladies is mos’ nigh i’sistible, but ‘mongst col’ed dey ain’t no pos’ble way to git erroun’ de gospel man w’en he go ahuntin’ fu’ anything.”

MR. CORNELIUS JOHNSON, OFFICE-SEEKER

It was a beautiful day in balmy May and the sun shone pleasantly on Mr. Cornelius Johnson’s very spruce Prince Albert suit of grey as he alighted from the train in Washington.  He cast his eyes about him, and then gave a sigh of relief and satisfaction as he took his bag from the porter and started for the gate.  As he went along, he looked with splendid complacency upon the less fortunate mortals who were streaming out of the day coaches.  It was a Pullman sleeper on which he had come in.  Out on the pavement he hailed a cab, and giving the driver the address of a hotel, stepped in and was rolled away.  Be it said that he had cautiously inquired about the hotel first and found that he could be accommodated there.

As he leaned back in the vehicle and allowed his eyes to roam over the streets, there was an air of distinct prosperity about him.  It was in evidence from the tips of his ample patent-leather shoes to the crown of the soft felt hat that sat rakishly upon his head.  His entrance into Washington had been long premeditated, and he had got himself up accordingly.