Part 16 (1/2)

Sometimes whin I lies here a thinkin' it seems ter me mebbe some folks is made lak Miss Sary jes' so they kin be angels on earth like yo'

maw. Miss Sary done sanctified yo' maw. She done tried her an' rubbed aginst her, burnt her in de fire of renunciation and drinched her in the waters of reproachment until yo maw is come out refimed gold.”

”Maybe you are right, Aunt Mary. I am trying to be nicer about the way I feel about Aunt Clay myself. I think if I feel differently, maybe Aunt Clay would feel differently toward me. She does not like me, and why should she, since I don't really like her?”

”I don't want ter take no Christian thoughts from yo' min' an' heart, honey chile, but the good you'll git from thinkin' kin' things 'bout Miss Sary will be all yo' own good. Miss Sary ain't gonter be no diffrent. She done got too sot in her ways. The leper ain't gonter change his spots now no mo'n it did in the time er Noah, certainly no ole tough leper lak Miss Sary.”

It was hard to tell the old woman good-by. Every time Molly left Chatsworth she feared it would be the last farewell to poor old Aunt Mary. She had been bedridden now for many months, but she hung on to life with a tenacity that was astonis.h.i.+ng.

”Cose, I is ready ter go whin the Marster calls,” she would say, ”but I ain't a hurryin' of him. A creakin' do' hangs long on its hinges an'

the white folks done iled up my hinges so, what with good victuals with plenty er suption in 'em an' a little dram now an' then 'cordin'

ter the doctor's subscription, that sometimes I don't creak at all. I may git up out'n this here baid 'fo long an' be as spry as the nex'. I wouldn't min' goin' so much if I jes' had mo' idee what Heaven is lak.

I'm so feard it will be strange ter me. I don't want ter walk on no goldin' streets. Gold ain't no better ter walk on than bricks. Miss Milly done read me the Psalm what say: 'He maketh me to lay down in the green pastures.' Now that there piece sounds mighty pretty--jes'

lak singin', but I ain't never been no han' to set on the damp groun'

an' Heaven or no Heaven, I low it would give me a misery ter be a doin' it now; an' as fer layin' on it, no'm! I wants a good rockin'

cheer, an' I wants it in the house, an' when I wants ter res' myse'f, a baid is good enough fer me.”

The old woman's theology was a knotty problem for all of the Brown family. They would read to her from the Bible and reason with her, but her preconceived notion of Heaven was too much for them. She believed firmly in the pearly gates and the golden streets, and freely announced she would rather have her own cabin duplicated on the other side than all the many mansions, and her own whitewashed gate with hinges made from the soles of old shoes than the pearly gates.

”What I want with a mansion? The cabin whar I been a livin' all my life is plenty good enough for this old n.i.g.g.e.r. An' what's mo, blue gra.s.s a growin' on each side of a shady lane is better'n golden streets. I ain't a goin' ter be hard-headed bout Heaven, but I hope the Marster will let me settle in some cottage an' let it be in the country where I kin raise a few chickens an' mebbe keep a houndog.”

”I am sure the Master will let you have whatever you want, dear Aunt Mary,” Molly would say.

”But if'n he does that, I'll get too rotten spiled ter stay in Heaven.

He better limit me some, or I'll feel too proudified even fer a angel.”

CHAPTER XV.

WELLINGTON AGAIN.

”Oh, it is nice to be back home,” sighed Molly, settling herself luxuriously in the sleepy-hollow chair that was supposed to be set aside for the master of the house. With the girlish habit she had never outgrown, she slipped off her pumps and stretched out her slender feet to the wood fire, that felt very comfortable in the crisp autumn weather.

”That's what you said when we arrived in Kentucky in the spring,” teased her husband.

”Well, so it was nice. The migratory birds have two homes and they are always glad to get to whichever one is seasonable. I reckon I am with my two homes as Mother is with her seven children. I love them just the same. Thank goodness, I haven't seven of them, homes, I mean.”

”Yes, I think two are enough.”

”Which home do you love best, Wellington or the Orchard Home?” asked Molly, smiling fondly at her husband, who was dandling little Mildred on his knees with awkward eagerness.

”Why, neither one of them is home to me unless you are there, and whichever one you grace with your presence is for the time being the one I like the better.”

”And the baby, too, whichever one she is in makes it home!”

”Oh, certainly!” exclaimed Edwin Green with a whimsical expression on his face. ”I see that when I make love now it is to be to two ladies and not to one.”

”Don't you think Mildred has grown a lot? And see, her eyes have really turned brown, just as Mother said they would. Don't you think she looks well?”