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“That’s just what you are doing, mammy. There isn’t a grain in her that is finer than you.”

“‘Sh! dis ain’t no time fur foolishness, baby. Yer ‘ain’t said nothin’ ’bout yo’ ma an’ de ole black ‘oman’s baby bein’ borned de same day, is yer? An’ how de ole ‘oman nussed ’em bofe des like twins? An’–an’ how folks ‘cused ‘er o’ starvin’ ‘er own baby on de ‘count o’ yo’ ma bein’ puny? ( But dat warn’t true. ) Maybe yer better leave all dat out, ‘caze hit mought spile de story.”

“How could it spoil it, mammy?”

“Don’t yer see, ef folks knowed dat dem white folks an’ dat ole black ‘oman was dat close-t, dey wouldn’t be no principle in it. Dey ain’t nothin’ but love in dat, an’ de ole ‘oman couldn’t he’p ‘erse’f, no mo’n I could he’p it ! No right-minded pusson is gwine ter deny dey own heart. Yer better leave all dat out, honey. B-b-but deys some’h’n’ else wha’ been lef out, wha’ b’long in de book. Yer ‘ain’t named de way de little mistus sot up all nights an’ nussed de ole ‘oman time she was sick, an’–an’–an’ de way she sew all de ole ‘oman’s cloze; an’–an’–an’ yer done lef’ out a heap o’ de purtiness an’ de sweetness o’ de yo’ng mistus! Dis is a book, baby, an’–an’–yer boun’ ter do jestice!”

In this fashion the story was written.

“And what do you think I am going to do with it, mammy?” said Evelyn, when finally, having done her very best, she was willing to call it finished.

“Yer know some’h’n’ baby? Ef-ef-ef I had de money, look like I’d buy that story myse’f. Seem some way like I loves it. Co’se I couldn’t read it; but my min’ been on it so long, seem like, ef I’d study de pages good dee’d open up ter me. What yer gwine do wid it, baby?”

“Oh, mammy, I can hardly tell you! My heart seems in my throat when I dare to think of it; but I’m going to try it. A New York magazine has offered five hundred dollars for a best story– five hundred dollars ! Think, mammy, what it would do for us!”

“Dat wouldn’t buy de plantatiom back, would it, baby?” Mammy had no conception of large sums.

“We don’t want it back, mammy. It would pay for moving our dear ones to graves of their own; we should put a nice sum in bank; you shouldn’t do any more washing; and if we can write one good story, you know we can write more. It will be only a beginning.”

“An’ I tell yer what I gwine do. I gwine pray over it good, des like I been doin’ f’om de start, an’ ef hit’s Gord’s will, dem folks ‘ll be moved in de sperit ter sen’ ‘long de money.”

And so the story was sent.

After it was gone the atmosphere seemed brighter. The pending decision was now a fixed point to which all their hopes were directed.

The very audacity of the effort seemed inspiration to more ambitious work; and during the long summer, while in her busy hands the fluting-machine went round and round, Evelyn’s mind was full of plans for the future.

Finally, December, with its promise of the momentous decision, was come, and Evelyn found herself full of anxious misgivings.

What merit entitling it to special consideration had the little story? Did it bear the impress of self-forgetful, conscientious purpose, or was this a thing only feebly struggling into life within herself–not yet the compelling force that indelibly stamps itself upon the earnest labor of consecrated hands? How often in the silent hours of night did she ask herself questions like these!

At last it was Christmas Eve again, and Saturday night. When the days are dark, what is so depressing as an anniversary–an anniversary joyous in its very essence? How one Christmas brings in its train memory-pictures of those gone before!