drawin’ up the sofy fer his triflin’ bones.”

Poor Sukey had no easy job to keep Aunt Mary satisfied. The old woman, having been a most energetic and tireless person in her day, could not understand that the whole world of darkeys could not be as she had been. Sukey’s son Buck, the apple of her mild eye, was the bane of Aunt Mary’s existence. She never missed a chance to make her younger half-sister miserable on his account. Indeed, Sukey, mild as she was, would not have stayed with Aunt Mary except for the fact that Aunt Mary had insured her life for her with the understanding that she was to minister to her to the end. It was dearly paid for, this service, as the old woman was most exacting. Lenient to a degree of softness with white folks, she was adamant with those of her own race.

“How do you feel, Aunt Mary?” asked Kent, looking with sorrow on the wasted features of the beloved old woman.

“Well, I’m a feelin’ tolerable peart this mornin’ although endurin’ of the night I thought my hour had struck. I got ter dreamin’ ’bout my fun’ral, an’ I got so mad cause Sis Ria Bowles done brought a fun’ral zine like one she done tuck ter Brer Jackson’s orgies! An’ dead or not, I wa’nt gonter stan’ fer no sich monkey shines over me.”

“Why, what did she take to Brother Jackson’s funeral?” laughed Kent.

“Ain’t you heard tel er that? She cut a cross outn that there sticky tangle yo’ foot fly paper en’ she kivered it all over with daisy haids an’ call herse’f bringing a zine. I riz up an’ spoke my mind in my dream an’ I let all these here niggers in Jeff’son County know that if they don’t see that I gits a fust class fun’ral, I gonter rise up when I ain’t a dreamin’ an’ speak my min’.”

Sukey Jourdan listened to this tirade with her eyes bulging out of her head, much to Aunt Mary’s satisfaction, as she very well knew that the way to manage her race was to intimidate them.

“I done been carryin’ insuriance in two clubs an’ a comp’ny, an’ betwixt ’em I’s entitled ter seventeen hacks. I’m a trustin’ ter Miss Milly an’ that there Paul ter make ’em treat me proper. Paul done say he will black list ’em in his newspaper if’n they leave off one tit or jottle from the ’greement. I sho would like ter see my fun’ral. I low it’s a goin’ ter be pretty stylish. I done pinted my pall buriers an’ bought they gloves an’ I low ter be laid out myself in my best black silk what Miss Milly done gimme goin’ on sixteen year, come nex’ Christmas. I ain’t a wo’ it much, as I had in min’ ter save it fer my buryin’. Some of the mimbers gits buried in palls made er white silk. They do look right han’some laid out in ’em, but then palls is made ’thout a piece er back an’ I has a notion that when Gabrel blows his trump on that great an’ turrerble day that ole Mary Morton ain’t a goin’ ter be caught without no back ter her grabe clothes. It mought make no diffrunce if’n Peter will let me pass on in, ’cause I low that the shining robes will be a waitin’ fer me—but sposin’—jes’ sposin’——” and the dear old woman’s face clouded over with anguish, “jes’ sposin’ Peter’ll say: ‘You, Mary Morton, g’long from this here portcullis. You blongs in the tother d’rection,’ an’ I’ll hab ter tun ’roun’ an’ take the broad road ter hell! What’ll I feel like, if’n I ain’t got no back ter my frock? No, sir! I’s a goin’ ter have on a dress complete. It mought be that Peter’ll think better er me if I shows him sech a spectful back.”

“You not get in Heaven!” exclaimed Kent. “Why, Aunt Mary, there wouldn’t be any Heaven for all of us bad Brown boys if you weren’t there.”

“Well, now them is words of comfort what beats the preacher’s. I done always been b’lievin’ in ’fluence an’ I mought er knowed my white folks would look arfter me on the las’ day jes as much as ever. I kin git in as Miss Milly’s cook if’n th’aint no other way. I been a ’lowing whin I gits ter Heaven I wouldn’t have ter work no more, but sence I been a laid up in the baid so long I gin ter think that work would tas’e right sweet. Cookin’ in Heaven wouldn’t be so hard with plenty of ’gredients ter han’ and no scrimpin’ and scrougin’ of ’terials. A lan’ flowin’ with milk an’ honey mus’ have aigs an’ butter. Here you, Sukey Jourdan! Whar you hidin’?”

“Here I is, Sis Ma’y, I jes’ stepped in the shed room ter men’ the fire ginst ’twas time ter knock up a bite er dinner fer you.”

“Well, while I’s a thinkin’ of it, I want you to git my bes’ linen apron outn the chist—the one with the insertioning let in ’bove the hem, an’ put it in the highboy drawer with my bes’ black silk. I low I’ll be laid out in a apron, ’cause if’n I can’t git inter Heaven no other way, I am a thinkin’ with a clean white apron on I kin slip in as a good cook.”

“Dear Aunt Mary, you have been as good as gold all your life,” declared Mrs. Brown, wiping a tear from her eye, but smiling in spite of herself at Aunt Mary’s quaint idea of a way to gain an entrance through the pearly gates.

Aunt Mary had had many doubts about her being saved and had spent many weary nights, terrified at the thought of dying and perhaps not being fit for Heaven, but now that she had thought of wearing the apron, all doubts of her desirability were set at rest; indeed, her last days were filled with peace since she felt now that even Peter could not turn back a good cook.

“I must be going, Aunt Mary,” said Kent, taking the old woman’s withered hand in his strong grasp. “I’ll be home again in a few weeks, I fancy, maybe sooner.”

“They’s one thing I ain’t arsked you yit: whar’s that there Judy gal? I been a dreamin’ you would bring her back with you.”

“She is the thing I am going back to France for, Aunt Mary.”

“Sho nuf? Well, well! They do tell me they’s fightin’ goin’ on in some er them furren parts. Sholy Miss Judy ain’t nigh the fightin’ an’ fussin’?”

“Yes, I am afraid she is. That’s the reason I must go for her.”

“Oh, Kent son! Don’t you git into no scrap yo’sef. It’s moughty hard fer young folks ter look on at a scrap ’thout gittin’ mixed up in it. Don’t you git too clost, whin you is lookin’, either. Them what looks on sometimes gits the deepes’ razor cuts with the back han’ licks. You pick up that gal an’ bring her back ter you’ maw jes’ as fas’ as yo’ legs kin carry you.”

“I’ll try to,” laughed Kent.

“Don’t try! Jes’ do it! That there Judy gal is sho nice an’ ’ristocratic, considerin’ she ain’t never had no home. She done tell me whin she was here to little Miss Milly’s weddin’ that she an’ her folks ain’t never lived in nothin’ but rented houses. That’s moughty queer to me, but ’cose niggers don’t understan’ ev’y thing. Well, you tell her that ole Mary Morton say she better pick up an’ come back to Chatswuth.”

“I certainly will, Aunt Mary, and good-by!”

The old woman put her hand on his bowed head for a moment, and while she said nothing, Kent took it for a benediction.

CHAPTER IV.
AFTERNOON TEA.

Molly had established the custom of afternoon tea in her orchard home, and while she had been greatly teased by her brothers for introducing this English custom into Kentucky country life, they one and all turned up on