Instantly noting signs of distress upon her young mistress' face she
hurried toward her, crying softly in her melodious voice:

"Baby! Honey! What's de matter? 'What's done happen? What fo' yo' bring
Roy up hyer? Where de Empress at?"

"Oh Mammy, Mammy, the Empress is dead. She--"

"What dat yo' tellin' me, baby? De Empress daid? Ma Lawd, wha' Massa
Neil gwine do to we-all when he hyar DAT? He gwine kill SOMEBODY dat's
sartin suah. What kill her?"

Peggy told the story briefly, Mammy Lucy, who had been mammy to her and
her father before her, listening attentively, nodding her head and
clicking her tongue in consternation. Such news was overwhelming.

But Mammy Lucy had not lived on this estate for over sixty years without
storing up some wisdom for emergencies, and before Peggy had finished
the pitiful tale she was on her way to the great kitchen at the opposite
end of the inclosure where Aunt Cynthia ruled as dusky goddess of the
shining copper kettles and pans upon the wall.

"Sis Cynthy, we-all in trebbilation and we gotter holp dis hyer pore
chile. She lak fer ter breck her heart 'bout de Empress and she sho will
if dis hyer colt come ter harm. Please, ma'am, gimme a basin o' fresh,
warm milk. Bud he done gone down ter 'Napolis fer a nussin' bottle, but
dat baby yonder gwine faint an' die fo' dat no 'count nigger git back
wid dat bottle. I knows HIM, I does."

"Howyo' gwine mak' dat colt drink?" asked Cynthia skeptically.