"Oh, Phyllis, I was just going to call you to get a piece of Uncle
Pompey's nut cake before it gets cold. It is famous in Byrdsville, and
I've been dying to have one made to give you ever since you came; only
I couldn't get the materials. It takes every good thing in a grocery,
from ginger to preserved cherries, to go in it, and it is best hot.
Uncle Pompey said for me to wait until the second pan came out of the
stove to call you, because it is always best. He has out the Sheffield
tray with the old point cover on it and one of great-grandmother
Byrd's willow plates to put it on for you. I'll let him bring it to
you and see you taste it. Poor Uncle Pompey is a famous cook, and
economy has been agony to him. I'm going to let him make every good
thing he wants to this week. He has been held down so long." Roxanne
bubbled along like a lovely mountain torrent of cheerfulness, while I
stood rooted to the spot in an astonishment that I could not conceal.

"Oh, Roxanne," I said weakly, as I sank into a chair.

"Yes, Phyllis, I suppose it is funny to see me enjoying the cake like
this after what happened last night; but the Byrds always make other
plans as soon as anything happens to the first one. Douglass and I
decided to rest from the steel invention by having things we want for
two or three months, and then he knows something greater to invent
than steel could ever be. He hasn't told me yet, but I'll tell you
when he does. Oh, there's Uncle Pompey with the cake. It's lovely,
isn't it, Phyllis?"

If a person went to a funeral and met the dead friend at the door
handing her a piece of cake, I suppose she would feel about like I did
when that funny old black man handed me that lovely and elegant tray
with a grin on his face so wide that it is a wonder it didn't meet