The interested eavesdropper decided that the welfare office had talked social security to the women instead of direct relief, and they were worried and suspicious about the matter.  The old black woman was getting angrier and angrier.

“If any of ’em lookin’ for me to have nasty old tore-up house, I ain’ gwine did it.  You dunno when sickness come.  When my boy got his leg broke up, soon as dey could, dey put him off on me.  Miz’ Powell say:  ’Steve, if you don’t be good to your ma, de Lord gwine take your blessing from you.’  Dey paid Steve $137.00, Nancy, and he ain’t gimmie a nickle!  He spent it on a woman in Edgefield.  But my gal is diffunt.  If she ain’ got but one mouthful she gwine give me half.”

Nancy nodded:  “Dat like my gal too.”

The old woman took up her complaint again:  “Um got daughter.  When you walk in her house, you think dey is a white person’s house.  When I was workin and able, I put down as many bleachin’ sheets as any white ’oman.”

Nancy’s ponderous sigh rolled out.  She was very “peaked” indeed on this hot September morning.  “If sister got a hoecake of bread, she gwine give it to me.  Ain’ nobody else to help now—­de Lord done come along and got ev’y one of my mother’s chillun but me.”

Seeing that present necessities were too important to permit an interview, the visitor said:  “Nancy, I’ll see you tomorrow.”  A preoccupied goodbye followed the interviewer, and the excited conversation rose again.

Three days later Nancy was found on the cluttered back porch of her house by the canal.  She was moving heavily about, picking up behind a white boy and her bright-faced grandchild.  Her face was still worried, but her manner was warm and friendly.

“I knowed you’d be comin’,” she said, smiling, “but I looked for you yesterday.”  She sat down and settled herself for conversation, her long hands, still nice looking in spite of rheumatism, moving nervously over her gray chambray lap.  “Dis las’ gone August I was 72 years old,” she began, “my sister say I older dan dat, but I know I born las’ year of de war.  I was born on governor Pickens’ place, de Grove place fur out, and my mother was Lizbeth Cohen.  Must have was my father a Indian, he brighter dan me, but redder.  I kin’ member Miss Dooshka Pickens, de one what went to Europe.  Dey put all de lil’ chillun in a row for her to look at, and she sittin’ up on her lil’ pony lookin’ at us chillun.  She was a pretty thing, yeah, I knowed her well.  After de war my mother and father rented land, paid de rent.  We liveded well.  I would go to school three months when we first gether all de krep (crop).  We had a colored teacher in de Baptist Church where dey taught school.  De name was Spring Grove.