at way," said Mary Ellen, not quite
able to put an end to this conversation.

"Miss Ma'y Ellen," said Aunt Lucy solemnly, "I'se wukked fer you an' yo'
fam'ly all my life, an' I hates to say ary woh'd what ain't fitten. But
I gotto to tell you, you ain' tellin' the _trufe_ to me, toe yo' old
black mammy, right now. I tells you, an' I knows it, tha' hain't nary
gal on earth ever done look at _no_ man, I don't care who he wuz, 'thout
thinkin' 'bout him, an' 'cidin' in her min', one way er otheh whetheh she
like fer to mah'y that ther man er not! If er 'ooman say she do
different f'om thet, she shoh'ly fergettin' o' the trufe, thass all!
Ain' thought o' him! Go 'long!" Aunt Lucy wiped her hand upon her apron
violently in the vehemence of her incredulity.

Mary Ellen's face sobered with a trace of the old melancholy.

"Aunt Lucy," she said, "you mean kindly, I am sure, but you must not talk
to me of these things. Don't you remember the old days back home? Can
you forget Master Henry, Aunt Lucy--can you forget the days--those
days--?"

Aunt Lucy rose and went over to Mary Ellen and took her hand between her
own great black ones. "No, I doesn't fergit nothin', Miss Ma'y Ellen,"
she said, wiping the girl's eyes as though she were still a baby. "I
doesn't fergit Mas' Henry, Gord bless him! I doesn't fergit him any mo'n
you does. How kin I, when I done loved him much ez I did you? Wuzn't I
goin' to come 'long an' live wif you two, an' take keer o' you, same's I
did to the old place? I was a-lookin' to ther time when you an' Mas'
Henry wuz a-goin' ter be mah'ied. But now listen toe yo' ole black
mammy, whut knows a heap mo'n you does, an' who is a-talkin' toe you
because you ain't got no real mammy o' yer own no mo'. You listen toe
me. Now, I done had fo' husban's, me. Two o' them done died, an' one
distapeart in the wah, an' one he turn out no 'count. Now, you s'pose I
kain't love no otheh man?"

Mary Ellen could not restrain a smile, but it did not impinge upon the
earnestness of the other.

"Yas'm, Miss Ma'y Ellen," she continued, again taking the girl's face
between her hands. "Gord, he say, it hain't good fer man toe be erlone.
An' Gord knows, speshul in er lan' like this yer, hit's a heap mo' fitten
fer a man toe be erlone then fer a 'ooman. Some wimmen-folks, they's
made fer grievin', all ther time, fer frettin', an' worr'in', an'
er-mopin' 'roun'. Then, agin, some is made fer _lovin_'--I don' say