I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn.  He often done that.  When I waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself.  I didn't take notice nor let on.  I knowed what it was about.  He was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their'n.  It don't seem natural, but I reckon it's so.  He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged I was asleep, and saying, “Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny! it's mighty hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!”  He was a mighty good ****, Jim was. But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones; and by and by he says: “What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase I hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a