“Missus, who is yer kinfolks back dar in Virginny, any way?”

The names of several were mentioned.

“Why, dem’s big folks,” said Uncle Joe.

“Yes,” said she, laughingly; “I belong to the first families of Virginia.”

“I don’t know ’bout dat, Missus.  I was dar ‘fore you was, an’ I don’t ‘long to de fus’ families!”

He looked at it from a chronological rather than a genealogical standpoint, and, strange to say, the familiar phrase had never been heard by him before.

Uncle Joe joined the Church.  He was sincere in his profession.  The proof was found in the fact that he quit dancing.  No more “pigeon wings,” “double-shuffles,” or “breakdowns,” for him—­he was a “perfessor.”  He was often tempted by the offer of coin, but he stood firm.

“No, sah; I’s done dancin’, an’ don’t want to be discommunicated from de Church,” he would say, good-naturedly, as he shied off, taking himself away from temptation.

A very high degree of spirituality could hardly be expected from Uncle Joe at that late day; but he was a Christian after a pattern of his own —­kind-hearted, grateful, simple-minded, and full of good humor.  His strength gradually declined, and he was taken to the county hospital, where his patience and cheerfulness conciliated and elicited kind treatment from everybody.  His memories went back to old Virginia, and his hopes looked up to the heaven of which his notions were as simple as those of a little child.  In the simplicity of a child’s faith he had come to Jesus, and I doubt not was numbered among his little ones.  Among the innumerable company that shall be gathered on Mount Zion from every kindred, tribe, and tongue, I hope to meet my humble friend, Uncle Joe.

At the End.

Among my acquaintances at San Jose, in 1863, was a young Kentuckian who had come down from the mines in bad health.  The exposure of mining-life had been too severe for him.  It took iron constitutions to stand all day in almost ice-cold water up to the waist with a hot sun pouring down its burning rays upon the head and upper part of the body.  Many a poor fellow sunk under it at once, and after a few days of fever and delirium was taken to the top of an adjacent hill and laid to rest by the hands of strangers.  Others, crippled by rheumatic and neuralgic troubles, drifted into the hospitals of San Francisco, or turned their faces sadly toward the old homes which they had left with buoyant hopes and elastic footsteps.  Others still, like this young Kentuckian, came down into the valleys with the hacking cough and hectic flush to make a vain struggle against the destroyer that had fastened upon their vitals, nursing often a vain hope of recovery to the very last.  Ah, remorseless flatterer! as I write these lines, the images of your victims crowd before my vision:  the strong men that grew weak, and pale, and thin, but fought to the last inch for life; the noble youths who were blighted just as they began to bloom; the beautiful maidens etherealized into almost more than mortal beauty by the breath of the death-angel, as autumn leaves, touched by the breath of winter, blush with the beauty of decay.  My young friend indulged no false hopes.  He knew he was doomed to early death, and did not shrink from the thought.  One day, as we were conversing in a store uptown, he said: