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“Exactly.”

Mammy reflected a moment. “But de grime-stone gotter stay berhime, is she? An’ is we gwine leave all de gyard’n tools an’ implemers ter de ‘Onerble Mr. Citified?”

“No, mammy; none of the appurtenances of the homestead are mortgaged. We must sell them. We need money, you know.”

“What is de impertinences o’ de homestid, baby? You forgits I ain’t on’erstan’ book words.”

“Those things intended for family use, mammy. There are the carriage-horses, the cows, the chickens–“

“Bless goodness fur dat! An’ who gwine drive ’em inter de cidy fur us, honey?”

“Oh, mammy, we must sell them all.”

Mammy was almost crying. “An’ what sort o’ entry is we gwine meck inter de cidy, honey–empty-handed, same as po’ white trash? D-d-d-don’t yer reck’n we b-b-better teck de chickens, baby? Yo’ ma thunk a heap o’ dem Brahma hens an’ dem Clymoth Rockers–dee looks so courageous.”

It was hard for Evelyn to refuse. Mammy loved everything on the old place.

“Let us give up all these things now, mammy; and after a while, when I grow rich and famous, I’ll buy you all the chickens you want.”

At last preparations were over. They were to start on the morrow. Mammy had just returned from a last tour through out-buildings and gardens, and was evidently disturbed.

“Honey,” she began, throwing herself on the step at Evelyn’s feet, “what yer reck’n? Ole Muffly is a-sett’n’ on fo’teen eggs, down in de cotton-seed. W-w-we can’t g’way f’m heah an’ leave Muffly a-sett’n’, hit des nachelly can’t be did. D-d-don’t yer reck’n dee’d hol’ back de morgans a little, till Muffly git done sett’n’?”

It was the same old story. Mammy would never be ready to go.

“But our tickets are bought, mammy.”

“An’ like as not de ‘Onerble Mr. Citified ‘ll shoo ole Muffly orf de nes’ an’ spile de whole sett’n’. Tut! tut! tut!” And, groaning in spirit, mammy walked off.

Evelyn had feared, for her father, the actual moment of leaving, and was much relieved when, with his now habitual tranquillity, he smilingly assisted both her and mammy into the sleeper. Instead of entering himself, however, he hesitated.

“Isn’t your mother coming, daughter?” he asked, looking backward. “Or–oh, I forgot,” he added, quickly. “She has gone on before, hasn’t she?”

“Yes, dear, she has gone before,” Evelyn answered, hardly knowing what she said, the chill of a new terror upon her.

What did this mean? Was it possible that she had read but half the truth? Was her father’s mind not only enfeebled, but going?

Mammy had not heard the question, and so Evelyn bore her anxiety alone, and during the day her anxious eyes were often upon her father’s face, but he only smiled and kept silent.

They had been travelling all day, when suddenly, above the rumbling of the train, a weak, bird-like chirp was heard, faint but distinct; and presently it came again, a prolonged “p-e-e-p!”

Heads went up, inquiring faces peered up and down the coach, and fell again to paper or book, when the cry came a third time, and again.

Mammy’s face was a study. “‘Sh–‘sh–‘sh! don’ say nothin’, baby,” she whispered, in Evelyn’s ear; “but dis heah chicken in my bosom is a-ticklin’ me so I can’t hardly set still.”

Evelyn was absolutely speechless with surprise, as mammy continued by snatches her whispered explanation:

“Des ‘fo’ we lef’ I went ‘n’ lif’ up ole Muffly ter see how de eggs was comin’ orn, an’ dis heah egg was pipped out, an’ de little risindenter look like he eyed me so berseechin’ I des nachelly couldn’t leave ‘im. Look like he knowed he warn’t righteously in de morgans, an’ ‘e crave ter clair out an’ trabble. I did hope speech wouldn’t come ter ‘im tell we got off’n deze heah train kyars.”

A halt at a station brought a momentary silence, and right here arose again, clear and shrill, the chicken’s cry.

Mammy was equal to the emergency. After glancing inquiringly up and down the coach, she exclaimed, aloud, “Some’h’n’ in dis heah kyar soun’ des like a vintrilloquer.”