reckon yo' pappy 'u'd t'ink ef he could see you ca'in' on dis away?
Didn' he put his han' on yo' haid an' call you his own brave little
gal, jes' befo', jes' befo'--he went?"

The girl raised her head for a moment and looked at the old woman.

"Oh, mammy, mammy," she cried, "I have tried so hard to be brave--to
be really my father's daughter, but I can't, I can't. Everything I
turn my hand to fails. I've tried sewing, but here every one sews for
herself now. I've even tried writing," and here a crimson glow burned
in her cheeks, "but oh, the awful regularity with which everything
came back to me. Why, I even put you in a story, Mammy Peggy, you
dear old, good, unselfish thing, and the hard-hearted editor had the
temerity to decline you with thanks."

"I wouldn't'a' nevah lef' you nohow, honey."

Mima laughed through her tears. The strength of her first grief had
passed, and she was viewing her situation with a whimsical enjoyment
of its humorous points.

"I don't know," she went on, "it seems to me that it's only in stories
themselves that destitute young Southern girls get on and make fame
and fortune with their pens. I'm sure I couldn't."

"Of course you couldn't. Whut else do you 'spect? Whut you know 'bout
mekin' a fortune? Ain't you a Ha'ison? De Ha'isons nevah was no buyin'
an' sellin', mekin' an' tradin' fambly. Dey was gent'men an' ladies
f'om de ve'y fus' beginnin'."