As they crossed the threshold of the humble abode, Edgar looked around upon its familiar, homely snugness with satisfaction—­at the huge, four-post bed, covered with a cheerful “log cabin” quilt made of scraps of calico of every known hue and pattern; at the white-washed walls adorned with pictures cut from old books and magazines; at the “shelf,” as Mammy called the mantel-piece, with its lambrequin of scallopped strips of newspaper, and its china vases filled with hundred-leaf roses and pinks; at the spotless bare floor and homemade split-bottomed chairs; at the small, but bright, windows, with their rows of geraniums and verbenas, brilliantly blooming in boxes, tin-cans and broken-nosed tea-pots.

Almost all that Mammy could say was,

“Lordy, Lordy, Honey, how you has growed!” Or, “Jes’ to think of Mammy’s baby sech a big boy!”

Presently a shadow crossed her face.  “Honey,” she said, “You gittin’ to be sech a man now, you won’t have no mo’ use fur po’ ole Mammy.  Dar won’t be a thing fur her to do fur sech a big man-chile.”

“Don’t you believe that, for a minute, Mammy,” was the quick reply.  “I was just wondering if you had forgotten how to make those good ash-cakes.”

“Now, jes’ listen to de chile, makin’ game o’ his ole Mammy!” she exclaimed.  “Livin’ so high wid all dem hifalutin’ kings an’ queens an’ sech, an’ den comin’ back here an’ makin’ ten’ he wouldn’ ’spise Mammy’s ash-cakes!”

“I’m in dead earnest, Mammy.  Indeed, indeed and double deed, I am.  Kings and queens don’t have anything on their tables half as good as one of your ash-cakes, with a glass of cool butter-milk.”

“Dat so, Honey?” she queried, with wonder.  “Den you sho’ly shall have some, right away.  Mammy churn dis ve’y mornin’, and dars a pitcher of buttermilk coolin’ in de spring dis minute.  You des’ make you’se’f at home an’ I’ll step in de kitchen an’ cook you a ash-cake in a jiffy.  Billy, you pick me some nice, big cabbage leaves to bake it in whilst I’m mixin’ de dough, an’ den go an’ git de butter-milk an’ a pat o’ dat butter I made dis mornin’ out’n de spring.”

Edgar and Uncle Billy followed her into the kitchen where she deftly mixed the corn-meal dough, shaped it in her hands into a thick round cake, which she wrapped in fresh cabbage leaves and put down in the hot ashes on the hearth to bake.  Meantime the following conversation between Edgar and the old “Uncle:” 

“Uncle Billy do you ever see ghosts now-adays?”

“To be sho’, li’l’ Marster, to be sho’.  Sees ’em mos’ any time.  Saw one las’ Sunday night.”

“What was it like, Uncle Billy?”

“Like, Honey?—­Like ole Mose, dat’s what t’wus like.  Does you ’member Mose whar useter drive de hotel hack?”

“Yes, he’s dead isn’t he?”