“We got along all right untell we was a-comin’ down a hill. Mr. Jeemes was a-coastin’, an’ the tail o’ that linen duster o’ hisn was a-sailin’ out behin’ like a flag floppin’ in an east wind. The fust thing I knowed he was a-stickin’ fast head fust into a pile o’ sand where they was makin’ mortar to build a cellar, an’ me on top o’ him! Wasn’t it a mercy thet we wasn’t stuck in the mortar? Jeemes is purty black, but he was a white man when he got out o’ thet san’ heap. As fer me, I tore my gloves, los’ my hat, an’ busted a new pair o’ corsets right off me. Besides thet, I nearly swallered my upper teeth, an’ I lost my bangs. They picked me up an’ carried me into a house they was a-buildin’, an’ give me a chance to fix myself up a bit. But I ’clar to you them corsets was no good never after thet; an’ it cost me ten dollars to fix thet upper set o’ teeth so I could wear ’em agin; I never have seen them bangs sence.
“We was thet done up that Jeemes sent fer a kerridge to bring us home; an’ fifty dollars won’t excuse the damages to them bikes. Comin’ home an’ settin’ so close together, beside the trouble we’d had makin’ us feel kin’ o’ tender o’ each other, Jeemes put his arm ’roun’ me—an’ I don’ see how ever in time he did it, bein’ the corsets warn’t no good, an’ me ’bout as small as a bag o’ taters—he put his arm ’roun’ me, he did, an’ he says, says he: ‘Le’s git merried, ’Phelia!’ I was thet stonished an’ set back you could heve knocked me down with a feather, an’ was thet weak from bein’ overcamed by my feelin’ thet all I remember was thet I fell on his neck like the patrihawks did in the Bible where they tell ’bout Abraham, Isaac an’ Jacob, Shem, Ham, Meshack an’ ’Bednego—you ’member how the minister tol’ us all ’bout that in the Skripter lesson las’ Sunday night, don’t you? I ain’t got no ’bility fer readin’, but I’s got a mem’ry, thank Gawd. As I was a-sayin’, I jes’ fell onto his neck, an’ I says to him: ‘Mr. Jeemes, ef you want yer rib, I’m her.’ Thet’s the way it camed ’bout, an’ we’s goin’ ter be merried purty soon, ’though Sarah Ann says I’m a mortalized ol’ ijit, an’ a insane mannyack, an’ Jeemes knows what he’s a-fishin’ fer. She’s insultin’, mos’ insultin’.”
Mrs. Smith sympathized with her, and after more talk about the rent of the building and other matters dear to the heart of the housewife, they separated.
For a long time Ma Smith sat there in the quiet, shaded room, buried in deep thought. She made a charming picture. White was her favorite color for summer wear, with a tiny crimson cashmere shawl thrown about her shoulders, to keep off the chill which comes so naturally to old age. She had been a handsome woman, and still retained traces of former beauty. Thick bands of snowy hair, falling in natural waves, were coiled closely at the back of a well-shaped head. Her clear olive complexion contrasted pleasantly with eyes large, soft, and black, heavy black eyebrows and long curling lashes. An aquiline nose, thin lips and delicately shaped ears gave her a very pleasing countenance.
As she sat there her whole life passed in review. She thought of her children, and how much she had to be thankful for in them. But more than all, the story told her so often by her father of his early life and that of his father and mother, was fresh within her mind as she sat there dreaming. Months afterward she looked back upon that day, and remembered with wonder her own tranquility.
“The supreme hours unnoted come.”
She heard the doorbell ring, but it did not disturb her reverie. There was a knock at the door of the room where she was sitting. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Davis ushered in a tall, elegant white man of distinguished address, and about her own age. Mrs. Davis closed the door behind him and vanished.
“Mrs. Smith, I presume?” he said in a pleasant voice as he advanced toward her. It was a voice of rare carrying power—deep, rich, musical, and had moved the House of Commons to enthusiasm on more than one memorable occasion in the politics of Great Britain.
“Yes,” she replied, rising from her seat.
“I
