It was one of John Jay's peculiarities that in going on an errand he
always chose the most roundabout route. Now, instead of following the
narrow footpath that made a short cut through the cool beech woods, he
went half a mile out of his way, along the sunny turnpike.

[Illustration: Mars' Nat]

Mars' Nat stood outside his kitchen window, with his hands in his
pockets, giving orders to the colored boy within, who did his bachelor
housekeeping. Usually he had a joking word for old Sheba's grandson, but
this morning he took no notice of the little fellow loitering by with
such an appealing look on his face. John Jay had come past the toll-gate
with a hope of seeing the "Rev'und Gawge," as he called him. It had been
three weeks since the man had come home, and in that time John Jay's
interest in him had grown into a sort of hero-worship. There had been a
great deal of talk about him among the ignorant colored people.
Wonderful stories were afloat of his experiences at the North, of his
power as a preacher, and of the plans he had made to help his people. He
would have been surprised could he have known how he was discussed, or
how the stories grew as they travelled.

Those who had any claim whatever to a former acquaintance stopped at the
cottage to see him. Their interest and the little offerings of fruit or
flowers, which they often made their excuse for coming, touched him
greatly. To all who came he spoke freely of his hopes. Realizing that he
might have but the one opportunity, he talked as only a man can talk who
feels the responsibilities of a lifetime crowded into one short hour.
One by one they came and listened, and went away with a new expression
on their faces, and a new ambition in their hearts.