Before he could answer, the sleigh stopped at the entrance to the
road leading to the big house, and at the door of the little lodge by
the always-open gate stood a short, stout colored woman, hands on her
hips, and on her head a gaily colored kerchief.

Laine was introduced. Mammy Malaprop was known by reputation, but no
words could make of Malaprop a picture, and in deep delight Laine
watched her as she curtsied in a manner all her own.

"How you do, suh! How you do! A superfluous Christmas to you, suh!
I'm sorry you didn't git heah 'fore de war. Livin' nowadays ain't
more'n shucks from de corn of what it used to be. Is dey all heah
now, Miss Claudia?"

"I believe so. I am going to bring Mr. Laine down for some hoe-cakes
and buttermilk after Christmas, and you might tell him some of the
stories you used to tell us when we were children. He lives in New
York, and--"

"He do! I hope he got himself petrified on the way down, for they
tell me 'tis a den of promiscuity, and all the nations of the earth
done took their seats in it. I knowed a woman who lived there once.
She near 'bout work herself to death, and she say she couldn't have
stood it if it hadn't been for the hopes of a glorious immorality
what was awaitin' her when she died--" And Mammy Malaprop's hands
waved cheerfully until the sleigh was lost to sight.

From the public road skirting the Elmwood land the private one,
tree-bordered by century-old elms, leading to the terraced lawn,