The other, in very clean shirt, trousers, and shoes, looking ten years
younger and hardly full-grown, was shapely and handsome. "That boy,"
thought I, "is a house-servant. The two don't belong in the same
harness. And yet I'd bet a new hat they're runaways."

Now they gathered courage to come over. With a childish parade of
unconcern and with all their glances up and down the road, they came,
and were within seven steps of me before they knew I was near. I shall
never forget the ludicrous horror that flashed white and black from the
eyes in that sun-bonnet, nor the snort with which its owner, like a
frightened heifer, crashed off a dozen yards into the brush and as
suddenly stopped.

"Good morning, boy," I said to the other, who had gulped with
consternation, yet stood still.

"Good mawnin', mist'ess."

The feminine title came luckily. I had forgotten my disguise, so
disarmed was I by the refined dignity of the dark speaker's mellow
voice and graceful modesty. After all, my prejudices were Southern. I
had rarely seen negroes, at worship, work, or play, without an inward
groan for some way--righteous way--by which our land might be clean rid
of them. But here, in my silly disguise, confronting this unmixed
young African so manifestly superior to millions of our human swarm
white or black, my unsympathetic generalizations were clear put to
shame. The customary challenge, "Who' d'you belong to?" failed on my
lips, and while those soft eyes passed over me from bonnet to mitts I
gave my head as winsome a tilt as I could and inquired: "What is your
name?"