It was mail day at the very small village known as Howlett's, and to the
fence in front of the post-office were attached three mules and a horse.
Inside the yard, tied to the low bough of a tree, was a very lean and
melancholy horse, on which had lately arrived Wesley Green, the negro
man who, twice a week, brought the mail from Pocohontas, a railway
station, twenty miles away. There was a station not six miles from
Howlett's, but, for some reason, the mail bag was always brought from
and carried to Pocohontas; Wesley Green requiring a whole day for a
deliberate transit between the two points.
In the post-office, which was the front room of a small wooden house
approached by a high flight of steps, was the postmistress, Miss Harriet
Corvey, who sat on the floor in one corner, while before her extended a
semicircle of men and boys. In this little assemblage certain elderly
men occupied seats which were considered to belong to them quite as much
as if they had been hired pews in a church, and behind them stood up a
row of tall young men and barefooted boys of the neighborhood, while,
farthest in the rear, were some quiet little darkies with mail bags
slung across their shoulders.
On a chair to the right, and most convenient to
Miss Harriet, sat old Madison Chalkley, the biggest and most venerable
citizen of the neighborhood. Mr Chalkley never, by any chance, got a
letter, the only mail matter he received being, "The Southern Baptist
Recorder," which came on Saturdays, but, like most of the people
present, he was at the post-office every mail day to see who got
anything. Next to him sat Colonel Iston, a tall, lean, quiet old
gentleman, who had, for a long series of years, occupied the position of
a last apple on a tree. He had no relatives, no friends with whom he
corresponded, no business that was not conducted by word of mouth. In
the last fifteen years he had received but one letter, and that had so
surprised him that he carried it about with him three days before he
opened it, and then he found that it was really intended for a gentleman
of the same name in another county. And yet everybody knew that if
Colonel Iston failed to appear in his place on mail day, it would be
because he was dead or prostrated by sickness.
With the mail bag on the floor at her left, Miss Harriet, totally
oblivious of any law forbidding the opening of the mails in public,
would put her hand into its open mouth, draw forth a letter or a paper,
hold it up in front of her spectacles, and call out the name of its
owner. Most of the letters went to the black boys with the mail bags who
came from country houses in the neighborhood, but whoever received
letter, journal, or agricultural circular, received also at the same
time the earnest gaze of everybody else in the room. Sometimes there
was a letter for which there was no applicant present and then Miss
Harriet would say: "Is anybody going past Mrs Willis Summerses?" And
if anybody was, he would take the letter, and it is to be hoped he
remembered to deliver it in the course of a week.
In spite of the precautions of the postmistress uncalled for letters
would gradually accumulate, and there was a little bundle of these in
one of the few pigeon holes in a small desk in the corner of the room,
in the drawer of which the postage stamps were kept. Now and then a
registered letter would arrive, and this always created considerable
sensation in the room, and if the legal recipient did not happen to be
present, Miss Harriet never breathed a quiet breath until he or she had
been sent for, had taken the letter, and given her a receipt. Sometimes
she sat up as late as eleven o'clock at night on mail days, hoping that
some one who had been sent for would arrive to relieve her of a
registered letter.
All the mail matter had been distributed, everybody but Mr Madison
Chalkley had left the room; and when the old gentleman, as was his wont
on the first day of the month, had gone up to the desk, untied the
bundle of uncalled-for letters, the outer ones permanently rounded by
the tightness of the cord, and after carefully looking over them, one by
one, had made his usual remark about the folly of people who wouldn't
stay in a place until their letters could get to them, had tied up the
bundle and taken his departure; then Miss Harriet put the empty mail
bag under the desk, and went up-stairs where an old lady sat by the
window, sewing in the fading light.
"No letters for you to-day, Mrs Keswick," said she.
"Of course not," was the answer, "I didn't expect any."
"Don't you think," said Miss Harriet, taking a seat opposite the old
lady, "that it is about time for you to go home and attend to your
affairs?"
"Well, upon my word!" said Mrs Keswick, letting her hands and her work
fall in her lap, "that's truly hospitable. I didn't expect it of you,
Harriet Corvey."
"I wouldn't have said it," returned the postmistress, "if I hadn't felt
dead certain that you knew you were always welcome here. But Tony Miles
told me, just before the mail came in, that the lady who's at your place
is running it herself, and that she's going to use pickle brine for a
fertilizer."
"Very likely," said Mrs Keswick, her face totally unmoved by this
intelligence--"very likely. That's the way they used to do in ancient
times, or something of the same kind. They used to sow salt over their
enemy's land so that nothing would ever grow there. That woman's family
has sowed salt over the lands of me and mine for three generations, and
it's quite natural she should come here to finish up."
There was a little silence after this, and then Miss
Harriet remarked: "Your people must know where you are. Why don't they
come and tell you about these things?"
"They know better," answered Mrs Keswick, with a grim smile. "I went
away once before, and Uncle Isham hunted me up, and he got a lesson that
he'll never forget. When I want them to know where I am, I'll tell
them."
"But really and truly"--said Miss Harriet "and you know I only speak to
you for your own good, for you pay your board here, and if you didn't
you'd be just as welcome--do you intend to keep away from your own house
as long as that lady chooses to stay there?"
"Exactly so long," answered the old lady. "I shall not keep them out of
my house if they choose to come to it. No member of my family ever did
that. There is the house, and they are free to enter it, but they shall
not find me there. If there was any reason to believe that everything
was dropped and done with, I would be as glad to see him as anybody
could be, but I knew from his letter just what he was going to say when
he came, and as things have turned out, I see that it was all worse than
I expected. He and Roberta March were both coming, and they thought that
together they could talk me down, and make me forgive and be happy, and
all that stuff. But as I wasn't there, of course he wouldn't stay, and
so there she is now by herself. She thinks I must come home after a
while, and the minute I do that, back he'll come, and then they'll have
just what they wanted. But I reckon she'll find that I can stick it out
just as long as she can. If Roberta March turns things upside down
there, it'll be because she can't keep her hands out of mischief, and
that proves that she belongs to her own family. If there's any harm
done, it don't matter so much to me, and it will be worse for him in the
end. And now, Harriet Corvey, if you've got to make up the mail to go
away early in the morning, you'd better have supper over and get about
it."
Meanwhile, at Mrs Keswick's house Mrs Null was acting just as
conscientiously as she knew how. She had had some conversations with
Freddy on the subject, and she had assured him, and at the same time
herself, that what she was doing was the only thing that could be done.
"It was dreadfully hard for me to get the money to come down here," she
said to him,--"you not helping me a bit, as ordinary husbands do--and I
can't afford to go back until I have accomplished something. It's very
strange that she stays away so long, without telling anybody where she
has gone to, but I know she is queer, and I suppose she has her own
reasons for what she does. She can't be staying away on my account, for
she doesn't know who I am, and wouldn't have any objections to me if she
did know. I suspect it is something about Junius which keeps her away,
and I suppose she thinks he is still here. But one of them must soon
come back, and if I can see him, or find out from her where he is, it
will be all right. It seems to me, Freddy, that if I could have a good
talk with Junius things would begin to look better for you and me. And
then I want to put him on his guard about this gentleman who is looking
for him. By the way, I suppose I ought to write a letter to Mr Croft, or
he'll think I have given up the job, and will set somebody else on the
track, and that is what I don't want him to do. I can't say that I have
positively anything to report, but I can say that I have strong hopes of
success, considering where I am. As soon as I found that Junius had
really left the North, I concluded that this would be the best place to
come to for him. And now, Freddy, there's nothing for us to do but to
wait, and if we can make ourselves useful here I'm sure we will be glad
to do it. We both hate being lazy, and a little housekeeping and farm
managing will be good practice for us during our honeymoon."
Putting on her hat, she went down into the garden where uncle Isham was
at work. She could find little to do there, for he was merely pulling
turnips, and she could see nothing to suggest in regard to his method of
work. She had found, too, that the old negro had not much respect for
her agricultural opinions. He attended to his work as if his mistress
had been at home, and although, in regard to the ploughing, he had
carried out the orders of Mrs Null, he had done it because it ought to
be done, and because he was very glad for some one else to take the
responsibility.
"Uncle Isham," said she, after she had watched the process of turnip
pulling for a few minutes, "if you haven't anything else to do when you
get through with this, you might come up to the house, and I will talk
to you about the flower beds, I suppose they ought to be made ready for
the winter."
"Miss Null," said the old man, slowly unbending his back, and getting
himself upright, "dar's allus sumfin' else to do. Eber sence I was fus'
bawn dar was sumfin else to do, an' I spec's it'll keep on dat ar way
till de day I dies."
"Of course there will be nothing else to do then but to die," observed
Mrs Null; "but I hope that day is far off, Uncle Isham."
"Dunno 'bout dat, Miss Null," said he. "But den some people do lib
dreffle long. Look at ole Aun' Patsy. Ise got to live a long time afore
I's as ole as Aun' Patsy is now."
"You don't mean to say," exclaimed Mrs Null, "that Aunt Patsy is alive
yet!"
"Ob course she is. Miss Null," said Uncle Isham. "If she'd died sence
you've been here we'd a tole you, sartin. She was gwine to die las'
week, but two or free days don' make much dif'rence to Aun' Patsy, she
done lib so long anyhow."
"Aunt Patsy alive!" exclaimed Mrs Null again. "I'm going straight off to
see her."
When she had reached the house, and had informed Letty where she was
going, the rotund maid expressed high approbation of the visit, and
offered to send Plez to show Miss Null the way.
"I don't need any one to go with me," said that lady, and away she
started.
"She don' neber want nobody to show her nowhar," said Plez, returning
with looks of much disapprobation to his business of peeling potatoes
for dinner.
When Mrs Null reached the cabin of Aunt Patsy, after about fifteen
minutes' walk, she entered without ceremony, and found the old woman
sitting on a very low chair by the window, with the much-talked-of,
many-colored quilt in her lap. Her white woolly head was partially
covered with a red and yellow handkerchief, and an immense pair of
iron-bound spectacles obstructed the view of her small black face, lined
and seamed in such a way that it appeared to have shrunk to half its
former size. In her long, bony fingers, rusty black on the outside, and
a very pale tan on the inside, she held a coarse needle and thread and a
corner of the quilt. Near by, in front of a brick-paved fireplace, was
one of her great-granddaughters, a girl about eighteen years old, who
was down upon her hands and knees, engaged with lungs, more powerful
than ordinary bellows, in blowing into flame a coal upon the hearth.
"How d'ye Aunt Patsy?" said Mrs Null. "I didn't expect to see you
looking so well."
"Dat's Miss Null," said the girl, raising her eyes from the fire, and
addressing her ancestor.
The old woman stuck her needle into the quilt, and reached out her hand
to her visitor, who took it cordially.
"How d'ye, miss?" said Aunt Patsy, in a thin but quite firm voice,
while the young woman got up and brought Mrs Null a chair, very short in
the legs, very high in the back, and with its split-oak bottom very much
sunken.
"How are you feeling to-day, Aunt Patsy?" asked Mrs Null, gazing with
much interest on the aged face.
"'Bout as common," replied the old woman. "I didn't spec' to be libin'
dis week, but I ain't got my quilt done yit, an' I can't go 'mong de
angels wrop in a shroud wid one corner off."
"Certainly not," answered Mrs Null. "Haven't you pieces enough to finish
it?"
"Oh, yaas, I got bits enough, but de trouble is to sew 'em up. I can't
sew very fas' nowadays."
"It's a pity for you to have to do it yourself," said Mrs Null. "Can't
this young person, your daughter, do it for you?"
"Dat's not my darter," said the old woman. "Dat's my son Tom's yaller
boy Bob's chile. Bob's dead. She can't do no sewin' for me. I'm 'not
gwine ter hab folks sayin', Aun' Patsy done got so ole she can't do her
own sewin'."
"If you are not going to die till you get your quilt finished, Aunt
Patsy," said Mrs Null, "I hope it won't be done for a long time."
"Don' do to be waitin' too long, Miss. De fus' thing you know some udder
culled pusson'll be dyin' wrop up in a quilt like dis, and git dar fus'."
Mrs Null now looked about her with much interest, and asked many
questions in regard to the old woman's comfort and ailments. To these
the answers, though on the whole satisfactory, were quite short, Aunt
Patsy, apparently, much preferring to look at her visitor than to talk
to her. And a very pretty young woman she was to look at, with a face
which had grown brighter and plumper during every day of her country
sojourn.
When Mrs Null had gone, promising to send Aunt Patsy something nice to
eat, the old woman turned to her great-grand-daughter, and said, "Did
anybody come wid her?"
"Nobody comed," said the girl. "Reckon' she done git herse'f los' some
o' dese days."
The old woman made no answer, but folding up the maniac coverlid, she
handed it to the girl, and told her to put it away.
That night Uncle Isham, by Mrs Null's orders, carried to Aunt Patsy a
basket, containing various good things considered suitable for an aged
colored woman without teeth.
"Miss Annie sen' dese h'yar?" asked the old woman, taking the basket and
lifting the lid.
"Miss Annie!" exclaimed Uncle Isham. "Who she?"
"Git out, Uncle Isham!" said Aunt Patsy, somewhat impatiently. "She was
h'yar dis mawnin'."
"Dat was Miss Null," said Isham.
"Miss Annie all de same," said Aunt Patsy, "on'y growed up an' married.
D'ye mean to stan' dar, Uncle Isham, an' tell me you don' know de little
gal wot Mahs' John use ter carry in he arms ter feed de tukkies?"
"She and she mudder dead long ago," said Isham. "You is pow'ful ole,
Aun' Patsy, an' you done forgit dese things."
"Done forgit nuffin," curtly replied the old woman. "Don' tell me no
moh' fool stuff. Dat Miss Annie, growed up an' married."
"Did she tell you dat?" asked Isham.
"She didn't tell me nuffin'. She kep' her mouf shet 'bout dat, an' I
kep' my mouf shet. Don' talk to me! Dat's Miss Annie, shuh as shootin'.
Ef she hadn't fotch nuffin' 'long wid her but her eyes I'd a knowed dem;
same ole eyes dey all had. An' 'sides dat, you fool Isham, ef she not
Miss Annie, wot she come down h'yar fur?"
"Neber thinked o' dat!" said Uncle Isham, reflectively. "Ef you's so
pow'ful shuh, Aun' Patsy, I reckon dat _is_ Miss Annie. Couldn't 'spec
me to 'member her. I wasn't much up at de house in dem times, an' she
was took away 'fore I give much 'tention ter her."
"Don' ole miss know she dar?" asked Aunt Patsy.
'"She dunno nuffin' 'bout it," answered Isham. "She's stayin' away cos
she think Mahs' Junius dar yit."
"Why don' you tell her, now you knows it's Miss Annie wot's dar?"
"You don' ketch me tellin her nuffin'," replied the old man shaking his
head. "Wish you was spry 'nuf ter go, Aun' Patsy. She'd b'lieve you; an'
she couldn't rar an' charge inter a ole pusson like you, nohow."
"Ain't dar nobody else in dis h'yar place to go tell her?" asked Aunt
Patsy.
"Not a pusson," was Isham's decided answer.
"Well den I _is_ spry 'nuf!" exclaimed Aunt Patsy, with a vigorous nod
of her head which sent her spectacles down to her mouth, displaying a
pair of little eyes sparkling with a fire, long thought to be extinct.
"Ef you'll carry me dar, to Miss Harriet Corvey's, I'll tell ole miss
myse'f. I didn't 'spec to go out dat dohr till de fun'ral, but I'll go
dis time. I spected dar was sumfin' crooked when Miss Annie didn't tole
me who she was. Ise not 'feared to tell ole miss, an' you jes' carry me
up dar, Uncle Isham."
"I'll do dat," said the old man, much delighted with the idea of doing
something which he supposed would remove the clouds which overhung the
household of his mistress. "I'll fotch de hoss an' de spring waggin an'
dribe you ober dar."
"No, you don' do no sech thing!" exclaimed Aunt Patsy, angrily. "I ain't
gwine to hab no hosses to run away, an' chuck me out on de road. Ef you
kin fotch de oxen an' de cart, I go 'long wid you, but I don' want no
hosses."
"Dat's fus' rate," said Isham. "I'll fotch de ox cart, an' carry you
ober. When you want ter go?"
"Dunno jes' now," said Aunt Patsy, pushing away a block of wood which
served for a footstool, and making elaborate preparations to rise from
her chair. "I'll sen' fur you when I's ready."
The next morning was a very busy one for Aunt Patsy's son Tom's yellow
boy Bob's child; and by afternoon it was necessary to send for two
colored women from a neighboring cabin to assist in the preparations
which Aunt Patsy was making for her projected visit. An old hair covered
trunk, which had not been opened for many years, was brought out, and
the contents exposed to the unaccustomed light of day; two coarse cotton
petticoats were exhumed and ordered to be bleached and ironed; a yellow
flannel garment of the same nature was put aside to be mended with some
red pieces which were rolled up in it; out of several yarn stockings of
various ages and lengths two were selected as being pretty much alike,
and laid by to be darned; an old black frock with full "bishop sleeves,"
a good deal mended and dreadfully wrinkled, was given to one of the
neighbors, expert in such matters, to be ironed; and the propriety of
making use of various other ancient duds was eagerly and earnestly
discussed. Aunt Patsy, whose vitality had been wonderfully aroused, now
that there was some opportunity for making use of it, spent nearly two
hours turning over, examining, and reflecting upon a pair of
old-fashioned corsets, which, although they had been long cherished, she
had never worn. She now hoped that the occasion for their use had at
last arrived but the utter impossibility of getting herself into them
was finally made apparent to her, and she mournfully returned them to
the trunk.
Washing, starching, ironing, darning, patching, and an immense deal of
talk and consultation, occupied that and a good deal of the following
day, the rest of which was given up to the repairing of an immense pair
of green baize shoes, without which Aunt Patsy could not be persuaded to
go into the outer air. It was Saturday morning when she began to dress
for the trip, and although Isham, wearing a high silk hat, and a long
black coat which had once belonged to a clergyman, arrived with the ox
cart about noon, the old woman was not ready to start till two or three
hours afterward. Her assistants, who had increased in number, were
active and assiduous. Aunt Patsy was very particular as to the manner of
her garbing, and gave them a great deal of trouble. It had been fifteen
years since she had set foot outside of her house, and ten more since
she had ridden in any kind of vehicle. This was a great occasion, and
nothing concerning it was to be considered lightly.
"'Tain't right," she said to Uncle Isham when he arrived, "fur a pow'ful
ole pusson like me to set out on a jarney ob dis kin' 'thout 'ligious
sarvices. 'Tain't 'spectable."
Uncle Isham rubbed his head a good deal at this remark. "Dunno wot we
gwine to do 'bout dat," he said. "Brudder Jeemes lib free miles off, an'
mos' like he's out ditchin'. Couldn't git him h'yar dis ebenin', nohow."
"Well den," said Aunt Patsy, "you conduc' sarvices yourse'f, Uncle
Isham, an' we kin have prar meetin', anyhow."
Uncle Isham having consented to this, he put his oxen under the care of
a small boy, and collecting in Aunt Patsy's room the five colored women
and girls who were in attendance upon her, he conducted "prars," making
an extemporaneous petition which comprehended all the probable
contingencies of the journey, even to the accident of the right wheel of
the cart coming off, which the old man very reverently asserted that he
would have lynched with a regular pin instead of a broken poker handle,
if he could have found one. After the prayer, with which Aunt Patsy
signified her entire satisfaction by frequent Amens, the company joined
in the vigorous singing of a hymn, in which they stated that they were
"gwine down to Jurdun, an' tho' the road is rough, when once we shuh we
git dar, we all be glad enough; de rocks an' de stones, an' de jolts to
de bones will be nuffin' to de glory an' de jiy."
The hymn over, Uncle Isham clapped on his hat, and hurried menacingly
after the small boy, who had let the oxen wander along the roadside
until one wheel of the cart was nearly in the ditch. Aunt Patsy now
partook of a collation, consisting of a piece of hoe-cake dipped in pork
fat, and a cup of coffee, which having finished, she declared herself
ready to start. A chair was put into the cart, and secured by ropes to
keep it from slipping; and then, with two women on one side and Uncle
Isham on the other, while another woman stood in the cart to receive and
adjust her, she was placed in position.
Once properly disposed she presented a figure which elicited the lively
admiration of her friends, whose number was now increased by the arrival
of a couple of negro boys on mules, who were going to the post-office,
it being Saturday, and mail day. Around Aunt Patsy's shoulders was a
bright blue worsted shawl, and upon her head a voluminous turban of
vivid red and yellow. Since their emancipation, the negroes in that part
of the country had discarded the positive and gaudy colors that were
their delight when they were slaves, and had transferred their fancy to
delicate pinks, pale blues, and similar shades. But Aunt Patsy's ideas
about dress were those of by-gone days, and she was too old now to
change them, and her brightest handkerchief had been selected for her
head on this important day. Above her she held a parasol, which had been
graciously loaned by her descendant of the fourth generation. It was
white, and lined with pink, and on the edges still lingered some
fragments of cotton lace.
Uncle Isham now took his position by the side of his oxen, and started
them; and slowly creaking, Aunt Patsy's vehicle moved off, followed by
the two boys on mules, three colored women and two girls on foot, and by
two little black urchins who were sometimes on foot, but invariably on
the tail of the cart when they could manage to evade the backward turn
of Uncle Isham's eye.
"Ef I should go to glory on de road, Uncle Isham," said Aunt Patsy, as
the right wheel of the cart emerged from a rather awkward rut, "I don'
want no fuss made 'bout me. You kin jes' bury me in de clothes I got
on, 'cep'n de pararsol, ob course, which is Liza's. Jes' wrop de quilt
all roun' me, an' hab a extry size coffin. You needn't do nuffin' more'n
dat."
"Oh, you's not gwine to glory dis time, Aun' Patsy," replied Uncle
Isham, who did not want to encourage the idea of the old woman's
departure from life while in his ox cart. But after this remark of the
old woman he was extraordinarily careful in regard to jolts and bumps.
When the procession reached the domain of Miss Harriet Corvey, there was
gathered inside the yard quite a number of the usual attendants on mail
days, awaiting the arrival of Wesley Green with his waddling horse and
leather bag. But all interest in the coming of the mail was lost in the
surprise and admiration excited by the astounding apparition of old Aunt
Patsy in the ox cart, attended by her retinue. As the oxen, skilfully
guided by Uncle Isham's long prod, turned into the yard, everybody came
forward to find out the reason of this unlooked-for occurrence. Even old
Madison Chalkley, his stout legs swaddled in home-made overalls,
dismounted from his horse, and Colonel Iston raised his tall form from
the porch step where he had been sitting, and approached the cart.
"Upon my word," said a young fellow, with high boots, slouched hat, and
a riding whip, "if here ain't old Aunt Patsy come after a letter! Where
do you expect a letter from, Aunt Patsy?"
The old woman fixed her spectacles on him for an instant, and then said
in a clear voice which could be heard by all the little crowd: "'Tain't
from nobody dat I owes any money to, nohow, Mahs' Bill Trimble."
A general laugh followed this rejoinder, and Uncle Isham grinned with
gratified pride in the enduring powers of his charge. The old woman now
put down her parasol, and made as if she would descend from the cart.
"You needn't git out, Aun' Patsy," said several negro boys at once.
"We'll fotch your letters to you."
"Git 'long wid you!" said the old woman angrily. "I didn't come here fur
no letters. Ef I wanted letters I'd sen' 'Liza fur 'em. Git out de way."
A chair was now brought, and placed near the cart; a woman mounted into
the vehicle to assist her; Uncle Isham and another colored man stood
ready to receive her, and Aunt Patsy began her descent. This, to her
mind, was a much more difficult and dangerous proceeding than getting
into the cart, and she was very slow and cautious about it. First, one
of her great green baize feet was put over the tail of the cart, and
resting her weight upon the two men, Aunt Patsy allowed it to descend to
the chair, where it was gradually followed by the other foot. Having
safely accomplished this much, the old woman ejaculated: "Bress de
Lor'!" When, in the same prudent manner, she had reached the ground,
she heaved a sigh of relief, and fervently exclaimed: "De Lor' be
bressed!"
Supported by Uncle Isham, and the other man, Aunt Patsy now approached
the steps. She was so old, so little, so bowed, and so apparently
feeble, that several persons remonstrated with her for attempting to go
into the house when anything she wanted would be gladly done for her.
"Much 'bliged," said the old woman, "but I don' want no letters nor
nuffin'. I's come to make a call on de white folks, an' I's gwine in."
This announcement was received with a laugh, and she was allowed to
proceed without further hindrance. She got up the porch steps without
much difficulty, her supporters taking upon themselves most of the
necessary exertion; but when she reached the top, she dispensed with
their assistance. Shuffling to the front door, she there met Miss
Harriet Corvey, who greeted the old woman with much surprise, but shook
hands with her very cordially.
"Ebenin', Miss Har'et," said Aunt Patsy. And then, lowering her voice
she asked: "Is ole miss h'yar?"
Miss Harriet hesitated a moment, and then she answered: "Yes, she is,
but I don't believe she'll come down to see you."
"Oh, I'll go up-stars," said Aunt Patsy. "Whar she?"
"She's in the spare chamber," said Miss Harriet; and Aunt Patsy, with a
nod of the head signifying that she knew all about that room, crossed
the hall, and began, slowly but steadily, to ascend the stairs. Miss
Harriet gazed upon her with amazement, for Aunt Patsy had been considered
chair-ridden when the postmistress was a young woman. Arrived at the end
of her toilsome ascent, Aunt Patsy knocked at the door of the spare
chamber, and as the voice of her old mistress said, "Come in!" she went
in.