she asked kindly.

"Nothin', mam; I jess rasslin' wit ther throne o' Grace er l'il bit. I
don't wan' to 'sturb you-all."

"We don't want to disturb you, either, Aunt Lucy," said Mary Ellen gently.

"Thass hit, Miss Ma'y Ellen, thass _hit_! It ain't fitten fer a ole
nigger 'ooman to be prayin' erroun' whah white folks is. You kain't seem
to let out good an' free; 'n ef I kain't let out good an' free, 'pears
like I don't git no hol' on salvation. We all po' weak sinners, Miss
Ma'y Ellen."

"Yes, I know, Lucy."

"An' does you know, Miss Ma'y Ellen, I sorter gits skeered sometimes, out
yer, fer fear mer supplercashuns ain't goin' take holt o' heaven jess
right. White folks has one way er prayin', but er nigger kain't pray
erlone--no, mam, jess kain't pray erlone."

"I thought you were doing pretty well, Lucy."

"Yass'm, pretty well, but not nothin' like hit useter be back in ole
Vehginny, when 'bout er hunderd niggers git to prayin' all to onct.
Thass whut goin' to fotch the powah on er suffrin' human soul--yes, ma'm!"

"Now, Aunt Lucy," said Mary Ellen sagely, "there isn't anything wrong
with your soul at all. You're as good an old thing as ever breathed, I'm
sure of that, and the Lord will reward you if he ever does any one, white
or black."

"Does you think that, honey?"

"Indeed I do."

"Well, sometimes I thinks the Lord ain' goin' to fergive me fer all ther
devilment I done when I was l'il. You know, Miss Ma'y Ellen, hit take a
life er prayer to wipe out ouah transgresshuns. Now, how kin I pray, not
to say _pray_, out yer, in this yer lan'? They ain't a chu'ch in a
hunderd mile o' yer, so fer's I kin tell, an' they shoh'ly ain't no
chu'ch fer cullud folks. Law me, Miss Ma'y Ellen, they ain't ary nother
nigger out yer nowheres, an' you don' know how lonesome I does git!
Seems to me like, ef I c'd jess know er sengle nigger, so'st we c'd meet
onct in er while, an' so'st we c'd jess kneel down togetheh an' pray
comfer'ble like, same's ef 'twus back in ole Vehginny--why, Miss Ma'y
Ellen, I'd be the happiest ole 'ooman ever you did see. Mighty bad sort
o' feelin', when a pusson ain't right shore 'bout they soul. An' when I
has to pray erlone, I kain't never be right shore!"

Mary Ellen rose and went to her room, returning with her guitar. She
seated herself upon the side of the bed near Aunt Lucy--an act which
would have been impossible of belief back in old Virginia--and touched a
few low chord