The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1899-07-05

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would come up to the house tonight
with your banjo. Mr.. Lewis is going to
lie here with his daughter, and 1 want
them to hear you play"
1t was thoughtlessness on the mas
ter's part; that was all. He did not be-
lieve that Martha could be very i'll; but
he would have reconsidered his demand
if he could have seen on Ben's face the
look of pain which the darkness hid.
You'll send de doctah right away,
mas'?"
"Oh, yes; I'll send him down. Don't
forget to come up"
Il won't flu git" said Ben as he turned
away. But he did not pick up his banjo
to go to the big house until the planta-
ton doctor had come and given Martha
something to ease her. Then he said :
IFS got to go up to the big house,
Marty; be back putty SOON"
Don you hu'y thoo on my count.
You go long, an gin Mas Tawm good
measure, you hyeah?"
"Quit yo' bossin'," said Ben, little
more cheerfully; 81 got you whah you
CANT move, an eff you give me any
O yo' back talk l low l frail you mon
st'ous.''
Martha chuckled ''go long" and
Ben went lingeringly out of the door,
the banjo in its ragged cover under
his arm.
The plantations boosted musician
played badly that night. Col. Tom
Curtis wondered what was the matter
with him, and Mr.. Lewis told his
daughter as he drove away that it
seemed as if the colonel's famous ban
joist had been overrated. But who
could play reels and jigs with the
proper swing when before his eyes was
the picture of smoky cabin room, and
on the bed in it a sick wife, the wife
of 40 years?
The black man hurried back to his
cabin where Martha was doing. She
awoke at his step.
Didn't l tell you not to hu'y back
hyeah?" she asked.
Il amt nevah hu'ied. I reckon l gin
'em all de music dey wanted Fen an
severed little sheepishly. He knew
that he had not exactly covered himself
with glory. Flows you feelin'?'' he
added.
bout de same. I got kin of a Misty
in my side
81 reckon you couldn't jine in de
hymn to TEX de wickedness outen dis
OF banio?' He looked anNiously at
her.
81 don't know bout j'inin' in, but you
go long an play anyhow. Eff l feel lax
journeyin' wild you fin you somewhat
on de road
The banjo began to sing, and when
the hymn was half through Martha's
voice, not so strCng and full as usual,
but trembling with a new pathos,
Joined in and went on to the end.
Then Ben put up the banjo and went to
his rest.
The next day Martha was no better,
and the same the next. Her mistress
came down to see her, and delegated
one of the other servants to be with
her through the day and to get Ben's
meals. The old man himself was her
close attendant in the evenings, and he
woman He varied his duties as nurse
by playing to her, sometimes some live
ly cheerful bit, but more often the
hymns she loved but was now too weak
to follow,
1t gave him an aching pleasure at his
heart to see how she hung on his music.
1t seemed to have become her very life.
He would play for no one else now,
and the little space before his door held
his audience of white and black chill
dren no more. They still came, but
the cabin door was inhospitably shut,
and they went away whispering among
themselves: "Aunt Martha's sick"
Little Liz, who was very wise pick
aninny, once added: Eyes, Aunt Mar
fy's sick, an my nanny says she ain
never gwine to git up no mo-. An
other child had echoed "Never!" in the
hushed, awe-struck tones which chill
dren use in the presence of the great
mystery.
LIS mother was right. Ben's Mar
tina was never to get up again. One
night during pause in his playing she
whispered: "Play 'Ha'k! F'om de
Tomb" He turned into the hymn, and
her voice, quavering and weak, joined
in. Ben started, for she had not tried to
sing for so long. He wondered if it
wasn't a token. In the midst of the
hymn she stopped, but he played on to
the end of the verse. Then he got up
and looked at her.
Her eyes were closed, and there was
smile on her face-a smile that Ben
knew was not of earth. He called her,
but she did not answer. He put his
hand upon her head, but she lay very
still. and then he knelt and buried his