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“How did you manage it, mammy?”

“Well, baby, I des put on my fluted ap’on–an’ you know it’s ironed purty–an’ my clair-starched neck-hankcher, an’–an’ my business face, an’ I helt up my head an’ walked in, an’ axed good prices, an’ de ladies, dee des tooken took one good look at me, an’ gimme all I’d carry. You know washin’ an’ ironin’ is my pleasure, baby.”

It was useless to protest, and so, after a moment, Evelyn began rolling up her sleeves.

“I am going to help you, mammy,” she said, quietly but firmly; but before she could protest, mammy had gathered her into her arms, and carried her into her own room. Setting her down at her desk, she exclaimed:

“Now, ef you goes ter de wash-tub, dey ain’t nothin’ lef fur me ter do but ‘cep’n’ ter set down an’ write de story, an’ you know I can’t do it.”

“But, mammy, I must help you.”

“Is you gwine meck me whup yer, whe’r ur no, baby? Now I gwine meck a bargain wid yer. You set down an’ write, an’ I gwine play de pianner on de washboa’d, an’ to-night you can read off what yer done put down, an’ ef yer done written it purty an’ sweet, you can come an’ turn de flutin’-machine fur me ter-morrer. Yer gwine meck de bargain wid me, baby?”

Evelyn was so touched that she had not voice to answer. Rising from her seat, she put her arms around mammy’s neck and kissed her old face, and as she turned away a tear rolled down her cheek. And so the “bargain” was sealed.

Before going to her desk Evelyn went to her father, to see that he wanted nothing. He sat, as usual, gazing silently out of the window.

“Daughter,” said he, as she entered, “are we in France?”

“No, dear,” she answered, startled at the question.

“But the language I hear in the street is French; and see the ship-masts–French flags flying. But there is the German too, and English, and last week there was a Scandinavian. Where are we truly, daughter? My surroundings confuse me.”

“We are in New Orleans, father–in the French Quarter. Ships from almost everywhere come to this port, you know. Let us walk out to the levee this morning, and see the men-of-war in the river. The air will revive you.”

“Well, if your mother comes. She might come while we were away.”

And so it was always. With her heart trembling within her, Evelyn went to her desk. “Surely,” she thought, “there is much need that I shall do my best.” Almost reverentially she took her pen, as she proceeded with the true story she had begun.

* * * * *

“I done changed my min’ ’bout dat ole ‘oman wha’ stan’ fur me, baby,” said mammy that night. “You leave ‘er des like she is. She glorifies de story a heap better’n my nachel self could do it. I been a-thinkin’ ’bout it, an’ de finer that ole ‘oman ac’, an’ de mo’ granjer yer lay on ‘er, de better yer gwine meck de book, ‘caze de ole gemplum wha’ stan’ fur ole marster, his times an’ seasons is done past, an’ he can’t do nothin’ but set still an’ wait, an’–an’ de yo’ng missus, she ain’t fitten ter wrastle on de outskirts; she ain’t nothin’ but ‘cep’ des a lovin’ sweet saint, wid ‘er face set ter a high, far mark–“

“Hush, mammy!”

” I’m a-talkin’ ’bout de book, baby, an’ don’t you interrup’ me no mo’! An’ I say ef dis ole ‘oman wha’ stan’ fur me, ef-ef-ef she got a weak spot in ‘er, dey won’t be no story to it. She de one wha’ got ter stan’ by de battlemints an’ hol’ de fort.”