"Diapers, sir."

"You are brutally plain, madam."

"You are devilishly inconsiderate and inquisitive, sir."

Both children emphasized the remark by beating upon the floor.

"To my business," said the professor. "This boy should be at school. Where is his father?"

"I ask you the same question, sir."

"Madam, that leads me to suspect."

"What does 'suspect' mean, professor?" asked Mary.

"It means—the Latin of it is—let's see——"

The professor stopped to pull his mustache.

"It means to dream out something and swear it's true," spoke up Rodney's mother.

"Madam, I want to talk to you about this boy's schooling. Have you any drinking water?"

"No. Rodney, a bucket of water."

"A bucket of water, Rodney. Go fast and return slowly," put in the professor.

Rodney started briskly, but Mary held him back and looked saucily at the professor.

"Let's bring back the bottle," laughed she, as both ran out.

"First, madam, I am a professor. I hold a diploma from a college."

"You carry it with you?"

"Sometimes."

"You have shown it to leading white men?"

"Yes."

"Well, many a good-meaning white man has been deceived by a college diploma in the hands of a negro."

"You presume too far on your limited knowledge."

"You travel too far on your flimsy diploma."

"Secondly, madam, I would elevate the morals of the race."

"Very good, sir. How?"

"I would begin by cutting off from society every illegitimate negro child."

"You would, in so doing, train your thumb and finger to pinch your own nose."

"My mother and father were married, madam."

"Your mother and her husband were married."

"Madam, I came in the interest of your child's education."

"You are a liar from the roots of your hair to your toe-nails. You came to pry into my private life and to take note of my mental stock. You may proceed, sir."

"I haven't time to stay."

"You have a sufficient supply with which to go."

"If you were a lady, I would say prate on."

"If you were a merchant, I would say speak tersely, weigh justly, and keep ever in mind a marble monument.

"If you were a poet I would say tear out and fling to the crowd as much of your heart as you would have the crowd return. If you were a philosopher I would say weaken not your philosophy with wit, nor weigh down your wit with philosophy. Philosophy and wit are good neighbors, but indifferent twins. Since you are a fool, I will simply say all remedies have failed, and you are happy and safe in your ancient calling."

Professor Brandon pulled his mustache a few seconds. He then said: "For your peace of mind, I will go."

Rodney entered with a pitcher of water, and Mary with a big black bottle.

"Have water, professor?" asked Rodney. Here Mary pretended to drink from the bottle. The professor took the pitcher and poured some of the water into the glass into which the ladies had spat some time before. He held it at some distance from him and said: "Woman's tedious, but pure water is wholesome."

"Professor!" roared Rodney's mother.

"You are just and polite, at last," calmly observed he.

"What's in the glass, sir? Examine the glass."

"That is best done in the dish-water."

The professor was about to drink it when he saw the spittle.

"You did this, boy?"

"I was holding Mary's doll, professor," gasped Rodney.

"Was it you, girl?"

"I was holding Rodney's cat and your big black bottle, professor," slyly replied Mary.

"You, madam?"

"Be calm, professor. That is the compliments of your fine ladies, without whom schoolteaching would be unbearable."

"They spat into this glass?"

"No, professor," retorted Mary. "Rodney said they puked into it."

"They had a mighty big stomach full of corn, anyway," put in Rodney.

The professor dropped the glass and stepped out of the door, seemingly very uneasy about the stomach.

"Professor," called Rodney's mother.

He stopped and grunted.

"Your attitude is undignified, sir."

He started to answer, but his mouth was too full. Rodney's mother walked to the door backwards and closed it.

"You did that, Mary," said Rodney.

"How?" retorted Mary.

"I didn't say they puked into the glass. I said they spat into it."

"It's all one, Master Rodney, and give me my doll."

"I won't. Give me my cat."

"I won't. My doll."

"My cat."

They tugged at the doll and cat. Rodney's mother threw her arms around them, and said soothingly: "My Rodney and his little sweetheart, Mary!"

TESNEY, THE DECEIVED

Tesney, the frail, the good, the beautiful mulatto, was known of child, man, woman, and beast.

"Wait, Tesney! We have something good for you and a secret to tell." Daily such invitations came from the white children of the neighborhood. Daily Tesney ate "good things" and listened to talks about dolls, playmates, stories, and so on. The dogs that accompanied the children pulled Tesney's apron strings and seemed to enjoy her good nature and the confidence of her little white friends.

"What a servant she is!" said white family men, as they passed. "She fondles the babies, and they do not cry. She talks, and older children listen. She moves, and they follow her. She does not command, but they do her bidding. There should be a million such as she."

"She is a lady born," said white women. "May no ill befall her."

Tesney was servant to Mrs. Wakely, a wealthy Southern white woman. Tesney's presence was energy to the other young negro servants. They thought of her, and put thought into their work. They looked at her and dignified their persons. "There may be queens of the kitchen as well as queens of the parlor," said they. "We belong to the first. Let us glory in the honor."

The lace curtains at the windows, the pictures on the wall, the lint on the carpet, the china in the closet, the wearing apparel of Mrs. Wakely, and the food on the table, all knew the touch of Tesney's delicate yellow hand. The washerwoman followed her instructions, and the clothes lasted months longer.

The other servants learned through her that honesty in a servant is a greater virtue than dignity in a parlor queen, and the grocery bill was reduced ten per cent. She studied the needs of the family, and expenses were reduced ten per cent. more. Her forethought for the family and her genius in arranging games and work for the children gave Mrs. Wakely many hours of leisure and comfort.

"The house can do without me for hours," said Mrs. Wakely to her guests, "but it cannot do without Tesney for a minute."

Tesney's mother was a mulatto, with the hair and features of that type. She died when Tesney was too young to know anything about her. Tesney never knew her father, but she had a suspicion. Her suspicion was wrong, and it caused all her trouble. She heard Agnes, who knew her mother, talk, and it was upon Agnes' talk that Tesney had founded her suspicion.

"He is my father," she often said to herself, as a certain rich man of another race passed by. "He will give me something some day."

On her twenty-third birthday she saw Mrs. Wakely in company with this man. After leaving the man, Mrs. Wakely said: "Tesney, here is a ring your father sent to you. Look on the inside of it."

Tesney looked, and read: "To my daughter, Tesney."

"The man, Mrs. Wakely?" asked Tesney.

"Your