"Hope dey will; but 'pears like you's jes' gone an' done it."
It is morning again. No clouds skirt the horizon; broad, beautiful daylight beams lovingly upon us. The wind, which yesterday blew such fierce breaths, journeyed southward during the night, and returned laden with good-tempered sweetness, whispering of warmer days. We had a pleasant birthday supper, and by request I read aloud a few of the foregoing chapters. Matthias rose in terror as he listened to the recital of our united lives, and interrupted me, saying:
"De good lansake, 'fore de Lord ob Canaan! but you ain't gwine to put _me_ down in rale printed readin', is ye?"
One would have supposed I had been reading his death warrant, or something equally portentous, as he stood before me with dilated eyes and upraised hands. I smiled at the picture and answered:
"Wall," he said, in a despairing tone, "it'll jes' kill de sale ob dat book. All de res' is good nuf, but dem tings I'se said don't have no larnin' to 'em, Miss Em'ly. 'Spect de folks'll tink you's done gone crazy puttin' me down by de side ob de white lamb. It's mighty quare an' on-reasonablelike, 'tis sartin'."
"Oh, Matthias," I replied, "the people will like it!"
"Hope you's in de right ob it, but what kin you call it when it's all done printed out fur ye?"
"That is the question. Louis says 'call it _The Harvest of Years_.'"
The look of quiet wonder which had succeeded the terrified expression his face at first revealed merged gradually into one of happy certainty, his large eyes filled with honest tears, and he said with much feeling:
"Mas'r Louis knows what's right sure nuf. De good Lord had taken into de kingdom some ob de bes' grain an' lef de ole stubble still. 'Pears like 'twas cuttin' a big field fur to take Miss Catten an' de white lamb too. Ah! Miss Em'ly, dis harves' ob years is a gwine on troo all de seasons; hope dis ole nigger'll be ready when de Lord comes roun' fur him."
The child of my thought is christened by the recognition which comes from the heart of one who is "faithful over the few things," and therefore claims the promise which many with enlarged privileges fail to acknowledge. Can I regret the choice Louis made? My heart says "never," and my narrative shall be called "The Harvest of Years."