“Marsters!”

The three looked up.

“Good mawnin’, young marsters.  I’m ’bleeged to go now.  I cert’nly thank you-all fo’ lettin’ me set in de cheer.  I won’t wait fo’ marse David Lance no mo’, sir.  Good mawnin’, marsters.”

A smiling courtesy dropped, and she was gone.

“I’ll be darned!” remarked reporter number one.

“Where did that blow in from?” added reporter number two.

But reporter number three had imagination.  “The dearest old soul I’ve seen in a blue moon,” said he.

Aunt Basha proceeded down the street and more than one in the crowd glanced twice at the erect, stout figure swinging, like a quaint and stately ship in full sail, among the steam-tuggery of up-to-date humanity.  There were high steps leading to the bank entrance, impressive and alarming to Aunt Basha.  She paused to take breath for this adventure.  Was a humble old colored woman permitted to walk freely in at those grand doors, open iron-work and enormous of size?  She did not know.  She stood a moment, suddenly frightened and helpless, not daring to go on, looking about for a friendly face.  And behold! there it was—­the friendliest face in the world, it seemed to the lost old soul—­a vision of loveliness.  It was the face of a beautiful young white lady in beautiful clothes who had stepped from a huge limousine.  She was coming up the steps, straight to Aunt Basha.  She saw the old woman, saw her anxious hesitation, and halted.  The next event was a heavenly smile.  Aunt Basha knew the repartee to that, and the smile that shone in answer was as heavenly in its way as the girl’s.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” spoke a voice of gentleness.

And the world had turned over and come up right side on top.  “Mawnin’, Miss.  Yas’m, I was fixin’ to go in dat big do’ yander, but I dunno as I’m ’lowed.  Is I ‘lowed, young miss, to go in dar an’ gib my two hun’erd to Unc’ Sam?”

“What?” The tone was kindness itself, but bewildered.

Aunt Basha elucidated.  “I got two hun’erd, young miss, and I cert’nly want to gib it to Unc’ Sam to buy clo’se for dem boys what’s fightin’ for us in Franch.”

“I wonder,” spoke the girl, gazing thoughtfully, “if you want to get a Liberty Bond?”

“Yas’m—­yas, miss.  Dat’s sho’ it, a whatjer-ma-call-’em.  I know’d ’twas some cu’is name lak dat.”  The vision nodded her head.

“I’m going in to do that very thing myself,” she said.  “Come with me.  I’ll help you get yours.”

Aunt Basha followed joyfully in the wake, and behold, everything was easy.  Ready attention met them and shortly they sat in a private office carpeted in velvet and upholstered in grandeur.  A personage gave grave attention to what the vision was saying.

“I met—­I don’t know your name,” she interrupted herself, turning to the old negro woman.

Aunt Basha rose and curtsied.  “Dey christened me Bathsheba Jeptha, young miss,” she stated.  “But I’se rightly known as Aunt Basha.  Jes’ Aunt Basha, young miss.  And marster.”