THE ADVICE OF AUNT LUCY

One day Aunt Lucy, missing Quarterly Meeting, and eke bethinking herself of some of those aches and pains of body and forebodings of mind with which the negro is never unprovided, became mournful in her melody, and went to bed sighing and disconsolate.  Mary Ellen heard her voice uplifted long and urgently, and suspecting the cause, at length went to her door.

“What is it, Aunt Lucy?” she asked kindly.

“Nothin’, mam; I jess rasslin’ wit ther throne o’ Grace er l’il bit.  I don’t wan’ to ’sturb you-all.”

“We don’t want to disturb you, either, Aunt Lucy,” said Mary Ellen gently.

“Thass hit, Miss Ma’y Ellen, thass hit!  It ain’t fitten fer a ole nigger ‘ooman to be prayin’ erroun’ whah white folks is.  You kain’t seem to let out good an’ free; ‘n ef I kain’t let out good an’ free, ’pears like I don’t git no hol’ on salvation.  We all po’ weak sinners, Miss Ma’y Ellen.”

“Yes, I know, Lucy.”

“An’ does you know, Miss Ma’y Ellen, I sorter gits skeered sometimes, out yer, fer fear mer supplercashuns ain’t goin’ take holt o’ heaven jess right.  White folks has one way er prayin’, but er nigger kain’t pray erlone—­no, mam, jess kain’t pray erlone.”

“I thought you were doing pretty well, Lucy.”

“Yass’m, pretty well, but not nothin’ like hit useter be back in ole Vehginny, when ‘bout er hunderd niggers git to prayin’ all to onct.  Thass whut goin’ to fotch the powah on er suffrin’ human soul—­yes, ma’m!”

“Now, Aunt Lucy,” said Mary Ellen sagely, “there isn’t anything wrong with your soul at all.  You’re as good an old thing as ever breathed, I’m sure of that, and the Lord will reward you if he ever does any one, white or black.”

“Does you think that, honey?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Well, sometimes I thinks the Lord ain’ goin’ to fergive me fer all ther devilment I done when I was l’il.  You know, Miss Ma’y Ellen, hit take a life er prayer to wipe out ouah transgresshuns.  Now, how kin I pray, not to say pray, out yer, in this yer lan’?  They ain’t a chu’ch in a hunderd mile o’ yer, so fer’s I kin tell, an’ they shoh’ly ain’t no chu’ch fer cullud folks.  Law me, Miss Ma’y Ellen, they ain’t ary nother nigger out yer nowheres, an’ you don’ know how lonesome I does git!  Seems to me like, ef I c’d jess know er sengle nigger, so’st we c’d meet onct in er while, an’ so’st we c’d jess kneel down togetheh an’ pray comfer’ble like, same’s ef ’twus back in ole Vehginny—­why, Miss Ma’y Ellen, I’d be the happiest ole ’ooman ever you did see.  Mighty bad sort o’ feelin’, when a pusson ain’t right shore ‘bout they soul.  An’ when I has to pray erlone, I kain’t never be right shore!”

Mary Ellen rose and went to her room, returning with her guitar.  She seated herself upon the side of the bed near Aunt Lucy—­an act which would have been impossible of belief back in old Virginia—­and touched a few low chords.  “Listen, Aunt Lucy,” she said; “I will play and you may sing.  That will make you feel better, I think.”