“Yas’m.  Yas, Miss Jinny,” endorsed Aunt Basha, climbing to her feet.  “Yas, my Miss Jinny, bress de Lawd.  It’s Basha.”  She turned to the girl.  “Dis yer chile ain’t nebber my young Marse Pendleton’s chile!”

But it was; and there was explanation and laughter and tears, too, but tears of happiness.  Then it was told how, after that crash of disaster was over; the family had tried in vain to find Basha and Jeems; had tried always.  It was told how a great fortune had come to them in the turn of a hand by the discovery of an unsuspected salt mine on the old estate; how “young Marse Pendleton,” a famous surgeon now, had by that time made for himself a career and a home in this Northern state; how his wife had died young, and his mother, “Miss Jinny,” had come to live with him and take care of his one child, the vision.  And then the simple annals of Aunt Basha and Uncle Jeems were also told, the long struggle to keep respectable, only respectable; the years of toil and frugality and saving—­saving the two hundred dollars which she had offered this morning as a “free gif” to her country.  In these annals loomed large for some time past the figure of a “young marse” who had been good to her and helped her much and often in spite of his own “res augusta domi,”—­which was not Aunt Basha’s expression.  The story was told of his oration in the little hall bedroom about Liberty “whatjer-m’-call-’ems,” and of how the boy had stirred the soul of the old woman with his picture of the soldiers in the trenches.

“So it come to me, Miss Jinny, how ez me’n Jeems was thes two wuthless ole niggers, an’ hadn’t fur to trabble on de road anyways, an’ de Lawd would pervide, an’ ef He didn’t we could scratch grabble some ways.  An’ dat boy, dat young Marse David, he tole me everbody ought to gib dey las’ cent fo’ Unc’ Sam an’ de sojers.  So”—­Aunt Basha’s high, inexpressibly sweet laughter of pure glee filled the room—­“so I thes up’n handed over my two hun’erd.”

“It was the most beautiful and wonderful thing that’s been done in all wonderful America,” pronounced Eleanor Cabell as one having authority.  She went on.  “But that young man, your young Marse David, why doesn’t he fight if he’s such a patriot?”

“Bress gracious, honey,” Aunt Basha hurried to explain, “he’s a-honin’ to fight.  But he cayn’t.  He’s lame.  He goes a-limpin’.  Dey won’t took him.”

“Oh!” retracted Eleanor.  Then:  “What’s his name?  Maybe father could cure him.”

“He name Lance.  Marse David Lance.”

Why should Miss Jinny jump?  “David Lance?  It can’t be, Aunt Basha.”

With no words Aunt Basha began hauling up her skirts and Eleanor, remembering Mr. Davidson’s face, went into gales of laughter.  Aunt Basha baited, looked at her with an inquiring gaze of adoration.  “Yas’m, my young miss.  He name dat.  I done put the cyard in my ridicule.  Yas’m, it’s here.”  The antique bead purse was opened and Lance’s card was presented to Miss Jinny.