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“She is their mammy,” said the other one simply, with a pleasant light in his eyes.

The old woman’s presence seemed to transform the house. She was no sooner installed than she took possession. That very morning she established her position, after a sharp but decisive battle with the airy “colored lady,” who for some days had been dawdling about the house. The mammy had gauged her as soon as her sharp eyes fell on her.

“What does yo’ call yo’self?” she asked her.

“What is my name? I am called ‘Miss Johnson–Miss Selina Johnson.'”

The old woman gave a sniff.

“Yo’ is! Well, what does yo’ call you’self doin’ heah?”

“You mean what is my employment! I am the help–one of the help.”

“Yo’ is!” Mam’ Lyddy tightened her apron-strings about her stout waist. “Well, ‘Miss Johnson,’ you git holt of that mat-trass and help me meek up dis heah bed so it ‘ll be fit for you’ mistis to sleep on it.” With a jerk she turned up the mattress. The maid was so taken aback for a moment that she did not speak. Then she drew herself up.

“I know I ain’ gwine to tetch it. I done made it up onct to-day. An’ I ain’t got no mistis.”

The mammy turned on her.

“Umh’m! I thought so! I knows jest yo’ kind. Well, de sooner you git out o’ dis room de better for you. ‘Cause if I lay my han’ ‘pon you I won’t let you go till I’se done what yo’ mammy ought to ‘a’ done to you ev’y day o’ yo’ life.”

She moved toward her with so dangerous a gleam in her sharp little eyes that “Miss Johnson” deemed it safest to beat a hasty retreat, and before bedtime had disappeared from the premises entirely.

In the kitchen the old woman had been equally strenuous. She had shown the cook in one evening that she knew more about cooking than that well-satisfied person had ever dreamed any one knew. She had taught the other maid that she knew by instinct every lurking place of dirt, however skilfully hidden, and, withal, she had inspired them both with so much dread of her two-edged tongue that they were doing their best to conciliate her by a zeal and civility they had never shown before.

For the first time the Graemes knew what comfort was in their new home.

“Well, this is something like home,” said Mrs. Graeme that evening as she sat by the lamp. “Why, I feel like little Ben. He said to-night, ‘Mamma, Mammy brought old times with her.'”

“May she live forever!” said Graeme.

In time, however, Mrs. Graeme began to feel that the old woman was confining herself too closely to the house. She needed some recreation. She had not even been to church, and Mrs. Graeme knew that this was her chief delight.

Yes, she would like to go to church, she said, but she did not know “about dese fine chutches.” She did not like much to go on the streets. “Dere was too many strange folks around for her. Dey did n’t keer nuthin’ for her ner she for dem.” And it was “de same way, she reckoned, with de chutches. Dey wuz new niggers, and she did n’t had no use for dem, nor dey for her.”

Mrs. Graeme, however, was insistent. Not far off, she had learned, was a colored church, “Mount Salem,” over which the Reverend Amos Johnson presided with much show of broadcloth and silk hat. He had considerable reputation as a speaker, and from time to time appeared in the newspapers as a rather ranting writer on matters with a political coloring. Mrs. Graeme explained to the old woman that she need have no more to do with the people than she wished, and the following Sunday she went herself with her to the door of the church. Before leaving her she gave her a half-dollar to put in the plate, and asked a solemn-looking usher to show her a good seat.