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As Evelyn stood gazing upon his handsome, placid face her eyes were blinded with tears. Falling upon her knees at his side, she engaged for a moment in silent prayer, consecrating herself in love to the life which lay before her, and as she rose she kissed his forehead gently, and passed to her own room.

On the table at her bedside lay several piles of manuscript, and as these attracted her, she turned her chair, and fell to work sorting them into packages, which she laid carefully away.

Evelyn had always loved to scribble, but only within the last few years had she thought of writing for money that she should need. She had already sent several manuscripts to editors of magazines; but somehow, like birds too young to leave the nest, they all found their way back to her. With each failure, however, she had become more determined to succeed, but in the meantime– now –she must earn a living. This was not practicable here. In the city all things were possible, and to the city she would go. She would at first accept one of the tempting situations offered in the daily papers, improving her leisure by attending lectures, studying, observing, cultivating herself in every possible way, and after a time she would try her hand again at writing.

It was nearly day when she finally went to bed, but she was up early next morning. There was much to be considered. Many things were to be done.

At first she consulted her father about everything, but his invariable answer, “Just as you say, daughter,” transferred all responsibility to her.

A letter to her mother’s old New Orleans friend, Madame Le Duc, briefly set forth the circumstances, and asked Madame’s aid in securing a small house. Other letters sent in other directions arranged various matters, and Evelyn soon found herself in the vortex of a move. She had a wise, clear head and a steady, resolute hand, and in old mammy a most capable servant. The old woman seemed, indeed, to forget nothing, as she bustled about, packing, suggesting, and, spite of herself, frequently protesting; for, if the truth must be spoken, this move to the city was violating all the traditions of mammy’s life.

“Wh-wh-wh-why, baby! Not teck de grime-stone!” she exclaimed one day, in reply to Evelyn’s protest against her packing that ponderous article. “How is we gwine sharpen de spade an’ de grubbin’-hoe ter work in the gyard’n?”

“We sha’n’t have a garden, mammy.”

“No gyard’n!” Mammy sat down upon the grindstone in disgust. “Wh-wh-wh-what sort o’ a fureign no-groun’ place is we gwine ter, anyhow, baby? Honey,” she continued, in a troubled voice, “co’se you know I ain’t got educatiom, an’ I ain’t claim knowledge; b-b-b-but ain’t you better study on it good ‘fo’ we goes ter dis heah new country? Dee tells me de cidy’s a owdacious place. I been heern a heap o’ tales, but I ‘ain’t say nothin’ Is yer done prayed over it good, baby?”

“Yes, dear. I have prayed that we should do only right. What have you heard, mammy?”

“D-d-d-de way folks talks, look like death an’ terror is des a-layin’ roun’ loose in de cidy. Dee tell me dat ef yer des nachelly blows out yer light ter go ter bed, dat dis heah some’h’n’ what stan’ fur wick, hit ‘ll des keep a-sizzin’ an’ a-sizzin’ out, des like sperityal steam; an’ hit’s clair pizen !”

“That is true, mammy. But, you see, we won’t blow it out. We’ll know better.”

“Does yer snuff it out wid snuffers, baby, ur des fling it on de flo’ an’ tromp yer foots on it?”

“Neither, mammy. The gas comes in through pipes built into the houses, and is turned on and off with a valve, somewhat as we let water out of the refrigerator.”

“Um-hm! Well done! Of co’se! On’y, in place o’ water what put out de light, hit’s in’ardly filled wid some’h’n’ what favor a blaze.”