of us didn't care to stay about no dry falls, so we went back to the hotel and got our supper, and begun to wonder what we should do next day. He said we'd better put it off and dream about it, and make up our minds nex' mornin', which I agreed to, an' that evenin' as we was sittin' in our room I asked Miguel to tell me the story of his life. He said, at first, it hadn't none, but when I seemed a kinder put out at this, he told me I mustn't mind, an' he would reveal the whole. So he told me this story—
"'My grandfather,' said he, 'was a rich and powerful Portugee, a-livin' on the island of Jamaica. He had heaps o' slaves, an' owned a black brigantine, that he sailed in on secret voyages, an', when he come back, the decks and the gunnels was often bloody, but nobody knew why or wherefore. He was a big man, with black hair, an' very violent. He could never have kept no help, if he hadn't owned 'em, but he was so rich, that people respected him in spite of all his crimes. My grandmother was a native o' the Isle o' Wight. She was a frail and tender woman, with yeller hair, and deep blue eyes, an' gentle, an' soft, and good to the poor. She used to take baskits of vittles aroun' to sick folks, an' set down on the side o' their beds and read "The Shepherd o' Salisbury Plains" to 'em. She hardly ever speaked above her breath, an' always wore white gowns with a silk kerchief a-folded placidly aroun' her neck.' 'Them was awful different kind o' people,' I says to him, 'I wonder how they ever come to be married.' 'They never was married,' says he. 'Never married' I hollers, a-jumpin' up from my chair, 'and you sit there carmly and look me in the eye.' 'Yes,' says he, 'they was never married. They never met: one
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