“Mis’ Polly she r’ared an’ she pitch’, but Mars Sam helt on like grim death.  Mis’ Polly wouldn’ give in neither, an’ so she fin’lly went away.  Dey made some kind er ‘rangement afterwa’ds, an’ Miss Polly tuck Mis’ ‘Livy ter her own house.  Mars Sam paid her bo’d an’ ‘lowed Mis’ Polly somethin’ fer takin’ keer er her.”

“And Julia stayed?”

“Julia stayed, suh, an’ a couple er years later her chile wuz bawn, right here in dis house.”

“But you said,” observed the doctor, “that Mrs. Ochiltree was in error about Julia.”

“Yas, suh, so she wuz, w’en my ole mist’ess died.  But dis wuz two years after,—­an’ w’at has ter be has ter be.  Julia had a easy time; she had a black gal ter wait on her, a buggy to ride in, an’ eve’ything she wanted.  Eve’ybody s’posed Mars Sam would give her a house an’ lot, er leave her somethin’ in his will.  But he died suddenly, and didn’ leave no will, an’ Mis’ Polly got herse’f ‘pinted gyardeen ter young Mis’ ‘Livy, an’ driv Julia an’ her young un out er de house, an’ lived here in dis house wid Mis’ ‘Livy till Mis’ ’Livy ma’ied Majah Carteret.”

“And what became of Julia?” asked Dr. Price.

Such relations, the doctor knew very well, had been all too common in the old slavery days, and not a few of them had been projected into the new era.  Sins, like snakes, die hard.  The habits and customs of a people were not to be changed in a day, nor by the stroke of a pen.  As family physician, and father confessor by brevet, Dr. Price had looked upon more than one hidden skeleton; and no one in town had had better opportunities than old Jane for learning the undercurrents in the lives of the old families.

“Well,” resumed Jane, “eve’ybody s’posed, after w’at had happen’, dat Julia’d keep on livin’ easy, fer she wuz young an’ good-lookin’.  But she didn’.  She tried ter make a livin’ sewin’, but Mis’ Polly wouldn’ let de bes’ w’ite folks hire her.  Den she tuck up washin’, but didn’ do no better at dat; an’ bimeby she got so discourage’ dat she ma’ied a shif’less yaller man, an’ died er consumption soon after,—­an’ wuz ‘bout ez well off, fer dis man couldn’ hardly feed her nohow.”

“And the child?”

“One er de No’the’n w’ite lady teachers at de mission school tuck a likin’ ter little Janet, an’ put her thoo school, an’ den sent her off ter de No’th fer ter study ter be a school teacher.  W’en she come back, ‘stead er teachin’ she ma’ied ole Adam Miller’s son.”

“The rich stevedore’s son, Dr. Miller?”

“Yas, suh, dat’s de man,—­you knows ‘im.  Dis yer boy wuz jes’ gwine ‘way fer ter study ter be a doctuh, an’ he ma’ied dis Janet, an’ tuck her ’way wid ’im.  Dey went off ter Europe, er Irope, er Orope, er somewhere er ’nother, ‘way off yander, an’ come back here las’ year an’ sta’ted dis yer horspital an’ school fer ter train de black gals fer nusses.”

“He’s a very good doctor, Jane, and is doing a useful work.  Your chapter of family history is quite interesting,—­I knew part of it before, in a general way; but you haven’t yet told me what brought on Mrs. Carteret’s trouble.”