this point to make an errand across the room. He need not have bothered
as far as Aunt Basha was concerned. When he came back she was again _a
la mode_ and held an ancient beaded purse at which she gazed. Out of a
less remote pocket she drew steel spectacles, which were put on. Mr.
Davidson repeated his question of how much.

"It's all hyer, marster. It's two hun'erd dollars, sir. I ben savin' up
fo' twenty years an' mo', and me'n Jeems, we ben countin' it every mont,
so I reckon I knows."

The man and the girl regarded the old woman a moment. "It's a large sum
for you to invest," Mr. Davidson said.

"Yassir. Yas, marster. It's right smart money. But I sho' am glad to gib
dis hyer to Unc' Sam for dem boys."

The cashier of the Ninth National Bank lifted his eyes from the blank he
was filling out and looked at Aunt Basha thoughtfully. "You understand,
of course, that the Government--Uncle Sam--is only borrowing your money.
That you may have it back any time you wish."

Aunt Basha drew herself up. "I don' wish it, sir. I'm gibin' dis hyer
gif,' a free gif' to my country. Yassir. It's de onliest country I got,
an' I reckon I got a right to gib dis hyer what I earned doin' fine
washin' and i'nin. I gibs it to my country. I don't wan' to hyer any
talk 'bout payin' back. Naw, sir."

It took Mr. Davidson and the vision at least ten minutes to make clear
to Aunt Basha the character and habits of a Liberty Bond, and then,
though gratified with the ownership of what seemed a brand new $200 and
a valuable slip of paper--which meandered, shamelessly into the purple
alpaca petticoat--yet she was disappointed.

"White folks sho' am cu'is," she reflected, "Now who'd 'a thought 'bout
dat way ob raisin' money! Not me--no, Lawd! It do beat me." With that
she threw an earnest glance at Mr. Davidson, lean and tall and gray,
with a clipped pointed beard. "'Scuse me, marster," said Aunt Basha,
"mout I ask a quexshun?"

"Surely," agreed Mr. Davidson blandly.

"Is you'--'scuse de ole 'oman, sir--is you' Unc' Sam?"

The "quexshun" left the personage too staggered to laugh. But the girl
filled the staid place with gay peals. Then she leaned over and patted
the wrinkled and bony worn black knuckles. "Bless your dear heart," she
said; "no, he isn't, Aunt Basha. He's awfully important and good to us
all, and he knows everything. But he's not Uncle Sam."

The bewilderment of the old face melted to smiles. "Dar, now," she
brought out;