Naturally, young Nat Chadwick, the last of the line, had fallen heir to all the love and respect with which they cherished any who bore the family name.  To other people he was a luckless sort of fellow, who had sown his wild oats early, and met disappointment at every turn.  It was passed about, too, that there was a romance in his life which had changed and embittered it.  Certain it is, he suddenly seemed to lose all ambition and energy.  Instead of making the brilliant lawyer his friends expected, he had come down at last to be the keeper of the toll-gate on a country turnpike.

Lying on his pillow in the dense shadow, John Jay looked out into the white moonlight, and listened to the old story told all over again.  But this time there was added the history of Jintsey’s boy, who seemed to have been born with the ambition hot in his heart to win an education.  He had done it.  There was a quiver of pride in Uncle Billy’s voice as he told how the boy had outstripped his young master in the long race; but there was a loyal and tender undercurrent of excuse for the unfortunate heir running through all his talk.

It had taken twenty years of struggle and work for the little black boy to realize his hopes.  He had grown to be a grave man of thirty-three before it was accomplished.  Now he had come home from a Northern college with his diploma and his degree.

“He have fought a good fight,” said Uncle Billy in conclusion, finishing as usual with a scriptural quotation.  “He have fought a good fight, and he have finished his co’se, but”—­here his voice sank almost to a whisper—­“he have come home to die.”

A chill seemed to creep all over John Jay’s warm little body.  He raised his head from the pillow to listen still more carefully.

“Yes, they say he got the gallopin’ consumption while he was up Nawth, shovellin’ snow an’ such work, an’ studyin’ nights in a room ’thout no fiah.  He took ole Mars’s name an’ he have brought honah upon it, but what good is it goin’ to do him?  Tell me that.  For when the leaves go in the autumn time, then Jintsey’s boy must go too.”

“Where’s he stayin’ at now?” demanded Mammy sharply, although she drew the corner of her apron across her eyes.

“He’s down to Mars’ Nat’s at the toll-gate cottage.  ’Peahs like it’s the natch’el place for him to be.  Neithah of ’em’s got anybody else, and it’s kind a like old times when they was chillun, play in’ round the big house togethah.  I stopped in to see him yestiddy.  The cup Mis’ Alice gave him was a-settin’ on the mantel, an’ Mars’ Nat was stewin’ up some sawt of cough tonic for him.  The white folks up Nawth must a thought a heap of him.  He’d just got a lettah from one of the college professahs ‘quirin’ bout his health.  Mars’ Nat read out what was on the back of it:  ‘Rev’und Gawge W. Chadwick, an’ some lettahs on the end that I kain’t remembah.  An’ he said, laughin’-like, sezee, ’well, Uncle Billy, you’d nevah