I have heard that she had had a way of appearing suddenly, like a beast of prey, in the dusk of the evening, and that few men cared to meet her at that time alone.

My uncle was a snug-built man, sixty-two inches high, with small, shapely hands and feet.  Towering above him stood this great, strange creature, barefooted, ragged, half tiger, half sphinx.

“I’m hungry.  I’ll eat or I kill.  I’m nobody’s slave!”

The soft voice was full of menace, the glare of famine and fury was in the burning eyes, and the supple cruelty of the wild beast was in the clenched hands.

Esmond Clarenden looked up at her with interest.  Then pointing toward our house he said, calmly: 

“Neither are you anybody’s master.  Go over there to the kitchen and get your supper.  If you can cook good meals, I’ll pay you well.  If you can’t, you’ll leave here.”

Possibly it was the first time in her strange and varied career that she had taken a command kindly, and obeyed because she must.  And so the savage African princess, the terror of the terrible slave-ship, the untamed plantation scourge, with a record for deeds that belong to another age and social code, became the great, silent, faithful, fearless servant of the plains; with us, but never of us, in all the years that followed.  But she fitted the condition of her day, and in her place she stood, where the beloved black mammy of a gentler mold would have fallen.

She announced that her name was Daniel Boone, which Uncle Esmond considered well enough for one of such a westward-roving nature.  But Jondo declared that the “Daniel” belonged to her because, like unto the Bible Daniel, no lion, nor whole den of lions, would ever dine at her expense.  To us she became Aunty Boone.  With us she was always gentle—­docile, rather; and one day we came to know her real measure, and—­we never forgot her.

I bounced out of bed at her call this morning, and bounced my breakfast into a healthy, good-natured stomach.  The sunny April of yesterday had whirled into a chilly rain, whipped along by a raw wind.  The skies were black and all the spring verdure was turned to a sickish gray-green.

“Weather always fit the times,” Aunty Boone commented as she heaped my plate with the fat buckwheat cakes that only she could ever turn off a griddle.  “You packin’ up for somepin’ now.  What you goin’ to get is fo’casted in this here nasty day.”

“Why, we are going away!” I cried, suddenly recalling the day before.  “I wish, though, that Mat could go.  Wouldn’t you like to go, too, Aunty?  Only, Bev says there’s deserts, where there’s just rocks and sand and everything, and no water sometimes.  You and Mat couldn’t stand that ’cause you are women-folks.”

I stiffened with importance and clutched my knife and fork hard.

“Couldn’t!” Aunty Boone gave a scornful grunt.  “Women-folks stands double more ’n men.  You’ll see when you get older.  I know about you freightin’ off to Santy Fee. You don’t know what desset is. You never see sand.  You never feel what it is to want watah.  Only folks ’cross the ocean in the real desset knows that.  Whoo-ee!”