lacy leaves scarcely stirred. A great shady one grew in the corner
of the paling-fence around the yard and close to the two-room living
quarters for the negro servants. Aunt Caroline sat in the door combing
her wiry hair with a curry comb, a jagged piece of broken mirror in her
lap to guide her in her hairdressing; close by were a couple of
rush-bottom chairs set face to face and holding across their seats a
pillow with a mosquito netting pulled tight across the top of the
backs. Every once in a while Aunt Caroline would twist her neck in the
direction of the improvised bed and, finding nothing stirring, would
resume her hair-brushing.

"Oh, Aunt Caroline," rushed out of the air and a two-year-old
little girl threw herself heavily against the old servant's knees,
nearly dashing her toilet articles to the ground. Aunt Caroline
started, raised her curry brush over her head and shook it hard at the
child.

"My lands," she said, in a low voice. "Whar you come from and
making all dat noise and your sister lying dar asleep. Ain't you never
swine to renembar what I's al'ays tellin' yer, not ter brash up against
one like out de Sperrit world and nearly scare yer old mammy ter deth?
Ennyhow yer look tired; come heah in my lap and le' me rock yer."

"May I have your looking glass, then, Aunt Caroline?"

"Look out, chile, you'll cut yerself! No. I's got to lay dis
up on de shelf for mahself. Dis no lookin' glass fer a white chile.
Now you come heah and get in my lap dis minute."

The child, tired from play and romping around, lifted her arms