“‘This was Miss Dory’s,’ he said; ‘the one she studied de most, tryin’ to learn, an’ gettin’ terribly flustered wid de big words.  I can see her now, bendin’ over it airly an’ late; sometimes wid de chile in her lap till she done tuckered out, an’ laid it away with a sithe as if glad to be shet of it.  She couldn’t larn, an’ de Lord took her whar dey don’t ask what you knows,—­only dis:  does you lub de Lord? an’ she did, de lamb.’

“Jake was still crying, and I was not far from it as I saw in fancy that poor young girl trying to learn, trying to master the big words and their meaning, in the vain hope of fitting herself for companionship with a man who had deserted her, and who probably never had for her more than a passing fancy, of which he was ashamed and would gladly ignore.

“‘I showed him de book,’ Jake said, ‘an’ tole him how she tried to larn, an’ I tried to help her all I could, an’ then he did have some feelin’ an’ his eyes got red, but he didn’t drap a tear; no, sar, not a drap!  He ast me could he have de book, an’ I said, “No, sar, not for nothin’.  It’s mine,” an’ he said, proud-like, “As you please.”  He was mighty good to me an’ Mandy Ann ‘bout money, an’ when I writ him she was married, he sent her two hundred dollars, which she ’vested in a house, or Ted would of spent it for fine close an’ cigarettes.  He must be gettin’ ole, as I be, an’ they call de town Crompton, after him, ‘stid of Troutburg.’

“Remembering your parish, I told him I had a son settled in Crompton, Massachusetts.  I hardly thought there were two towns of the same name in one State, and I’d inquire if Col.  Crompton lived there.  His face brightened at once, and when I left him, he grasped my hand and said, ’Bress de Lawd for de grain of comfort you done give me.  If she is thar I’d walk all de road from Floridy to see her, if I couldn’t git thar no other way.  Thankee, Mas’r Mason, for comin’ to see me.  I’se pretty reg’lar at church, an’ sets by de do’, an’ allus gives a nickel for myself an’ one for Miss Dory dead an’ for Miss Dory livin’, an’ I makes Mandy Ann ’tend all I can, though she’d rather go whar she says it’s livelier.  She is mighty good to me,—­comes ebery week an’ clars up an’ scoles me for gittin’ so dirty.  She’s great on a scrub, Mandy Ann is.  Muss you go?  Well, I’m glad you comed, an’ I s’pec’s I’ve tole you some things twiste, ‘case of my memory.  Good-by.’

“He accompanied me to the door, and shook hands with all the grace of a born gentleman.  Then I left him, but have been haunted ever since by a picture of that old negro in his lonely cabin, jogging that empty cradle nights when he cannot sleep, and contrasting him with Col.  Crompton, whoever and wherever he may be.  Perhaps you can throw some light on the subject.  The world is not so very wide that our sins are not pretty sure to find us out, and that some Col.  Crompton has been guilty of a great wrong seems certain.  Possibly he is one of your parishioners, and you may know something of the second Dory.  I shall await your answer with some anxiety.