“De Lord Jesus, he say to me,—­’Pompey, you must be faithful in de little things as well as in de big.  I never slurred nuthin when I wuz a walkin’ up and down troo Palestine.  I sees you, Pompey; don’t make no difference whether de earthly master does or not.’  So I does all de little tings to de Lord, Miss ‘Vadney, an’ de Jedge knows he can depen’ on Pompey.  Whenever he wants me, I’se here.”

“That is lovely!” said Evadne softly.  “But don’t you get dreadfully tired doing the same work over and over?  Every day you have to do exactly the same things.  It is as bad as a tread-mill.  You just keep on going round and round.”

Pompey gave one of his low chuckles. “‘Specs dat’s de way in dis worl’, Miss ‘Vadney.  We’se got ter keep on eatin’, an’ we can’t sleep enuff one night ter last fer a week,—­but I ‘low it’s jes’ one o’ de beautiful laws ob de Lord,—­de sun an’ de moon an’ de stars keeps a’goin over de same ground most continuous.  So long as we’se doin’ his will, Missy, it don’t matter much whether we’se goin’ roun’ an’ roun’ or straight ahead.  Stan’ over, Ceesah!” and Pompey gave a final polish to the horse’s already immaculate legs.

“Why don’t you blacken their hoofs, Pompey?  They used to do it in Barbadoes.”

Pompey’s eyes twinkled.  “Dat’s a no ’count livery notion, Miss ’Vadney, a coverin’ up de cracks an’ makin’ de horse’s hufs look better dan dey is.  De King’s chillens can’t stoop ter any sech decepshuns.  De Lord Jesus says, ‘Pompey, I is de truff.  You’s got ter speak de truff an’ live de truff ef you belongs ter me.’  We ain’t got no call ter cover up anything, Miss ‘Vadney, ef we’se livin’ ez de Lord wants us to.  ’Sides, der ain’t no ‘cashun fer it.  Ef we keeps de stable pure an’ de food good an’ gives de horse de right kind of exercise an’ plenty of ’tention, de hufs will take care ob demselves,” and he held Caesar’s foot up for her inspection.

“Halloo, Evadne, are you taking lessons in farriery?  What’s the matter, Pompey?  Has Caesar got a sand crack?” and Louis sauntered up, the inevitable cigar between his lips.

“I don’t ’low my horses ever hez sech things, Mass Louis,” said Pompey grandly.

“Ha, ha! what a conceited old beggar you are.  But I’ll give the devil his due and acknowledge the horses are a credit to you.”  He held a dollar towards him balanced on his forefinger.  “Here, take this and fill your pipe with it.”

“Don’t want no pay fer doin’ my dooty, Mass Louis.”

“Pshaw, man!  Take a tip, can’t you?”

Pompey shook his head.  “I don’t smoke, Mass Louis.”

“Don’t smoke!” ejaculated Louis.  “You don’t here, I know, because the Judge is afraid of fire, but you’ll never make me believe that you don’t spend your evenings over the fire with your pipe.  You darkeys are as fond of one as the other.”

“You’s mistaken, Mass Louis,” said Pompey quietly.

“’Pon my word!  And why don’t you smoke, Pomp?  You don’t know what you’re missing.  It is the greatest comfort on earth.”