It was only one of "Malachi's ways," Richard
would say, with a gentle smile quivering about his
lips.

"I do dat 'cause it's Marse Richard--dat's all,"
Malachi would answer, drawing himself up with the
dignity of a chamberlain serving a king, when someone
had the audacity to question him--a liberty he
always resented.

They had been boys together--these two. They
had fished and hunted and robbed birds' nests and
gone swimming with each other. They had fought
for each other, and been whipped for each other many
and many a time in the old plantation-days. Night
after night in the years that followed they had sat
by each other when one or the other was ill.

And now that each was an old man the mutual service
was still continued.

"How are you getting on now, Malachi--better?
Ah, that's good--" and the master's thin white hand
would be laid on the black wrinkled head with a
soothing touch.

"Allus feels better, Marse Richard, when I kin
git hold ob yo' han', sah--" Malachi would answer.

Not his slave, remember. Not so many pounds of