A surname was disinterred by the efforts of the personage which appeared to startle the vision.

“Why, it’s our name, Mr. Davidson,” she exclaimed.  “She said Cabell.”

Aunt Basha turned inquiring, vague eyes.  “Is it, honey?  Is yo’ a Cabell?”

And then the personage, who was, after all, cashier of the Ninth National Bank and very busy, cut in.  “Ah, yes!  A well known Southern name.  Doubtless a large connection.  And now Mrs.—­ah—­Cabell—­”

“I’d be ‘bleeged ef yo’ jis’ name me Aunt Basha, marster.”

And marster, rather intrigue because he, being a New Englander, had never in his life addressed as “aunt” a person who was not sister to his mother or his father, nevertheless became human and smiled.  “Well, then, Aunt Basha.”

At a point a bit later he was again jolted when he asked the amount which his newly adopted “aunt” wanted to invest.  For an answer she hauled high the folds of her frock, unconscious of his gasp or of the vision’s repressed laughter, and went on to attack the clean purple alpaca petticoat which was next in rank, Mr. Davidson thought it wise at this point to make an errand across the room.  He need not have bothered as far as Aunt Basha was concerned.  When he came back she was again a la mode and held an ancient beaded purse at which she gazed.  Out of a less remote pocket she drew steel spectacles, which were put on.  Mr. Davidson repeated his question of how much.

“It’s all hyer, marster.  It’s two hun’erd dollars, sir.  I ben savin’ up fo’ twenty years an’ mo’, and me’n Jeems, we ben countin’ it every mont, so I reckon I knows.”

The man and the girl regarded the old woman a moment.  “It’s a large sum for you to invest,” Mr. Davidson said.

“Yassir.  Yas, marster.  It’s right smart money.  But I sho’ am glad to gib dis hyer to Unc’ Sam for dem boys.”

The cashier of the Ninth National Bank lifted his eyes from the blank he was filling out and looked at Aunt Basha thoughtfully.  “You understand, of course, that the Government—­Uncle Sam—­is only borrowing your money.  That you may have it back any time you wish.”

Aunt Basha drew herself up.  “I don’ wish it, sir.  I’m gibin’ dis hyer gif,’ a free gif’ to my country.  Yassir.  It’s de onliest country I got, an’ I reckon I got a right to gib dis hyer what I earned doin’ fine washin’ and i’nin.  I gibs it to my country.  I don’t wan’ to hyer any talk ‘bout payin’ back.  Naw, sir.”

It took Mr. Davidson and the vision at least ten minutes to make clear to Aunt Basha the character and habits of a Liberty Bond, and then, though gratified with the ownership of what seemed a brand new $200 and a valuable slip of paper—­which meandered, shamelessly into the purple alpaca petticoat—­yet she was disappointed.

“White folks sho’ am cu’is,” she reflected, “Now who’d ’a thought ’bout dat way ob raisin’ money!  Not me—­no, Lawd!  It do beat me.”  With that she threw an earnest glance at Mr. Davidson, lean and tall and gray, with a clipped pointed beard. “’Scuse me, marster,” said Aunt Basha, “mout I ask a quexshun?”