“My name ’s ’Liza,” she began, “’Liza Jane.  W’en I wuz young I us’ter b’long ter Marse Bob Smif, down in ole Missoura.  I wuz bawn down dere.  Wen I wuz a gal I wuz married ter a man named Jim.  But Jim died, an’ after dat I married a merlatter man named Sam Taylor.  Sam wuz free-bawn, but his mammy and daddy died, an’ de w’ite folks ’prenticed him ter my marster fer ter work fer ’im ’tel he wuz growed up.  Sam worked in de fiel’, an’ I wuz de cook.  One day Ma’y Ann, ole miss’s maid, came rushin’ out ter de kitchen, an’ says she, ’’Liza Jane, ole marse gwine sell yo’ Sam down de ribber.’

“‘Go way f’m yere,’ says I; ‘my husban’ ‘s free!’

“‘Don’ make no diff’ence.  I heerd ole marse tell ole miss he wuz gwine take yo’ Sam ’way wid ‘im ter-morrow, fer he needed money, an’ he knowed whar he could git a t’ousan’ dollars fer Sam an’ no questions axed.’

“W’en Sam come home f’m de fiel’ dat night, I tole him ’bout ole marse gwine steal ‘im, an’ Sam run erway.  His time wuz mos’ up, an’ he swo’ dat w’en he wuz twenty-one he would come back an’ he’p me run erway, er else save up de money ter buy my freedom.  An’ I know he ’d ‘a’ done it, fer he thought a heap er me, Sam did.  But w’en he come back he didn’ fin’ me, fer I wuzn’ dere.  Ole marse had heerd dat I warned Sam, so he had me whip’ an’ sol’ down de ribber.

“Den de wah broke out, an’ w’en it wuz ober de cullud folks wuz scattered.  I went back ter de ole home; but Sam wuzn’ dere, an’ I could n’ l’arn nuffin’ ’bout ’im.  But I knowed he ’d be’n dere to look fer me an’ had n’ foun’ me, an’ had gone erway ter hunt fer me.

“I ‘s be’n lookin’ fer ’im eber sence,” she added simply, as though twenty-five years were but a couple of weeks, “an’ I knows he ’s be’n lookin’ fer me.  Fer he sot a heap er sto’ by me, Sam did, an’ I know he ‘s be’n huntin’ fer me all dese years,—­’less’n he ’s be’n sick er sump’n, so he could n’ work, er out’n his head, so he could n’ ’member his promise.  I went back down de ribber, fer I ’lowed he ’d gone down dere lookin’ fer me.  I ‘s be’n ter Noo Orleens, an’ Atlanty, an’ Charleston, an’ Richmon’; an’ w’en I ’d be’n all ober de Souf I come ter de Norf.  Fer I knows I ‘ll fin’ ’im some er dese days,” she added softly, “er he ‘ll fin’ me, an’ den we ’ll bofe be as happy in freedom as we wuz in de ole days befo’ de wah.”  A smile stole over her withered countenance as she paused a moment, and her bright eyes softened into a far-away look.

This was the substance of the old woman’s story.  She had wandered a little here and there.  Mr. Ryder was looking at her curiously when she finished.

“How have you lived all these years?” he asked.

“Cookin’, suh.  I ’s a good cook.  Does you know anybody w’at needs a good cook, suh?  I ‘s stoppin’ wid a cullud fam’ly roun’ de corner yonder ’tel I kin git a place.”

“Do you really expect to find your husband?  He may be dead long ago.”