pular writing was, she knew, in the other direction, but the _best_
writing was _simple_.

The suggestion sent her back to study.

And now for her own improvement she rewrote the "story of big words" in
the simplest English she could command, bidding mammy tell her if there
was one word she could not understand.

In the transition the spirit of the story was necessarily changed, but
the exercise was good. Mammy understood every word.

"But, baby," she protested, with a troubled face, "look like _hit don't
stan' no mo'_; all its granjer done gone. You better fix it up des like
it was befo', honey. Hit 'minds me o' some o' deze heah fine folks what
walks de streets. You know _folks what 'ain't got nothin' else_, dee des
nachelly _'bleege_ ter put on finery."

How clever mammy was! How wholesome the unconscious satire of her
criticism! This story, shorn of its grandeur, could not stand indeed. It
was weak and affected.

"You dear old mammy," exclaimed Evelyn, "you don't know how you are
helping me."

"Gord knows I wushes I could holp you, honey. I 'ain't nuver is craved
educatiom befo', but now, look like I'd like ter be king of all de
smartness, an' know all dey is in de books. I wouldn't hol' back
_noth'n_ f'om yer, baby."

And Evelyn knew it was true.

"Look ter me, baby," mammy suggested, another night, after listening to
a highly imaginative story--"look ter me like ef--ef--ef you'd des write
down some _truly truth_ what is _ac-chilly happened_, an' glorify it wid
educatiom, hit 'd des nachelly stan' in a book."

"I've been thinking of that," said Evelyn, reflectively, laying aside
her manuscript.

* * * * *

"How does this sound, mammy?" she asked, a week later, when, taking up
an unfinished tale, she began to read.

It was the story of their own lives, dating from the sale of the
plantation. The names, of course, were changed, excepting Blink's, and,
indeed, until he appeared upon the scene, although mammy listened
breathless, she did not recognize the characters. Blink, however, was
unmistakable, and when he announced himself from the old woman's bosom
his identity flashed upon mammy, and she tumbled over on the floor,
laughing and crying alternately. Evelyn had written from her heart, and
the story, simply told, held all the wrench of parting with old
associations, while the spirit of courage and hope, which animated her,
breathed in every line as she described their