duty from which much pleasure could be derived to take part in any controversy. Likewise, one acquires merit, when one is a chauffeur, by strongly maintaining the contention of one’s mistress–she may reciprocate in a difficult hour. Ike turned an unfriendly countenance upon the woman, and asked for information, “How ah gwine see ’roun’ er corner? Does you ’spect dat ma eyes is twisted?”

“Go long, man. Mine you’ own business.”

Not thus summarily was Ike to be dismissed. “Dese yere chillun ain’ no call to be in de street. Howcum ’em der? Ain’ it yo’all’s business to keep ’em outen de way?” A uniformity in costume struck him. “Ain’ dey orphant chillun runnin’ loose?”

“Orphans! The poor things!” Virginia cried.

“Wot ef dey is orphants?” the woman protested with great belligerence.

“Den,” Ike behaved as if he, a public spirited citizen, had discovered the warden of a penitentiary seeking pleasure beyond the walls with notorious criminals, “howcum dey heah? Wharfo?”

The suspicion and force in the chauffeur’s manner brought fresh tears to orphan eyes.

Encouraged by these evidences of public attention, Ike continued his investigation. “Ah axes you woman, why ain’ dey in de ’sylum whar dey ’long?”

The chauffeur’s words had not soothed the guardian of the children. She showed unmistakable signs of increasing wrath. Glaring fixedly at him, she blazed, “Mine you’ own business, you black po’cupine.”

Although the application of the epithet was obscure, its effect was all that could be desired. Ike suffered a species of fit. His mouth opened and closed without sound. His wildly rolling eyes exposed wide areas of white and then glued themselves in invenomed hatred upon the woman. Muscles contracted and worked in his neck. Even as a panther, he appeared about to spring upon his foe.

Virginia interfered. Her experience of life was limited, but she understood the negro. “Don’t get out of the car, Ike,” she ordered.

“Ef dat spindle legged dude git outen dat caah, ah is boun’ to bus’ his haid wid ma fist,” predicted the woman.

Virginia feared no blood shed but deemed it desirable to take steps to avoid an argument certain to be loud and long and to add nothing to her dignity as a bystander. She answered Ike’s inquiries herself. “The children were out walking, I suppose, and had to cross the street?”

This overture slightly mollified the woman but she yet viewed the porcupine with distinct hostility.

“Are all of these poor children orphans?” continued Virginia, shaking her head at the pity of it.

“Yas’m, dey’s all orphants f’om the Lincoln Home, up de street.”

“And you had them out for their daily walk?”

“No, mam, dey gits out onest er week. Ah ain’ got no time to take ’em out every day.”

Virginia looked at the woman very thoughtfully. “Your work makes you very happy, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“Ah ain’ heard o’ no kind er wo’k mekin’ nobody happy. Ah jes allers was, an’ allers is happy. Dat’s me,” the woman explained.

“Why, you are a mother to all of those children.”

“Yas’m, de onlies’ mother dey gwine git, ah guesses.” The woman viewed her reassembled charges speculatively. She patted the little cripple at her side. “Po’ li’l Willie, he cain’t walk ve’y fas’, kin you, sweetheart?”

“You poor little fellow,” sighed Virginia.

“Ah bettah tote you, Willie. We gotta move right smart afo’ noon an’ you ain’ ve’y spry on dat crutch.” Picking up the lame boy, the woman began to issue instructions for the advance of her forces.

Virginia surveyed the manoeuvering orphans comprehensively. “If I could get them all into the car I would take them for a ride,” she exclaimed, and then, “They can be crowded in, I believe. May they go?”

The woman regarded the girl in great astonishment. “Cou’se dey kin go eff yo’all wants ’em.” Her conscience appeared to demand a further warning. “Dey is er powe’ful mouthy and mischievous lot o’ rascallions.”

Ike was disgusted. To be required to act as chauffeur for a crowd of screaming infants of his own race was another wound to that dignity so recently and fearfully lacerated. He submitted protest. “Dis yere caah ain’ gwine hol’ all dem chillun. It ain’ no dray. Dey gwine bus’ de springs smack bang offen it.”

“If the car breaks down you can have them fix it at the garage, Ike. They always have been able to mend it,” Virginia told him with great complacency as she proceeded with her plans.

“Ef all de chillun stan’ close, ’ceptin fo’ or five wid li’l Willie an’ me on de back seat, dey is plenty room,” the orphan’s guardian indicated, greatly pleased at the prospect of the ride.

The sullen fire of eternal hatred burned in the eye which Ike turned upon her. He fired his last shot. “Miss Virginy, you’ Daddy ain’ want all des yere chillun in dis caah. He mighty biggoty about whoall ride in it. Ah ’spects dey is gwine dirty it up sumpin fierce.”

“Who yo’all call dirty?” demanded the woman; but Virginia made peace by an emphatic “Hush,” as the colored orphans were packed into the back of the machine. With their attendant they filled the entire space.

The car moved away as soon as Virginia had taken her seat by the irritated Ike. They left the town and sped along country roads. The little negroes, awed by their new surroundings, became noisy with familiarity and expressed their joy by screaming.

The young hostess of this strange party was at first uncomfortable and embarrassed at the clamor of her small guests, but as she awakened to the enjoyment she was giving the orphans she forgot herself in their pleasure.

It was a beautiful ride along the river shore, through the woods, and then back between great fields of growing grain the surfaces of which were broken into moving waves of green at the touch of the summer breeze.

They reentered the town a few minutes before noon and were almost back to the turn towards the Orphans’ Home, when far down the street they caught the glitter of brass and the glow of red. “Er ban’, er ban’,” screamed the little negroes.

The enticing strains of melody called to Ike across the intervening blocks. There was a look of deep guile in his face, which became regret, as he suggested to Virginia, “Des po’ orphants ain’ no chans to heah fine ban’ music. Ah might circle aroun’ dat minst’el ban’ an’ let de chillun lis’en fo’ er spell.”

As Virginia nodded assent, the car shot away, straight down the street. In a few moments they had overtaken the marching musicians, the reality of the poster which had charmed Ike. From them burst melody which coursed through his veins. As he drifted away on a sea of syncopated bliss, the car, subconsciously driven, closed upon the marching minstrels. In the midst of a delegation of youth, honoring the snare and bass drummers, it rolled. Bearing Virginia and her guests behind the pageant and as an apparent part thereof, it proceeded towards the center of the city.

The negro children were clamorous with delight at the wonderful concentration of humanity, noise, and excitement. Their screams vied with the band and their guardian on the rear seat assumed a careless dignity.

Virginia’s mind was occupied with the infants. To her, the onlookers, more numerous as they neared the business part of town, were the background of a picture. She was utterly unconscious that the load of pickaninnies formed a most appropriate part of the spectacle.

Laughter pealed from