property.  I have come to you, ’cause I am going away to New York, and can’t feel easy ’till you promise me you will do what you can.  Miss Ellice is laying at the pint of death, and her poor child is so deestracted about her needing comforts, that I tole her I’de go on an’ nuss her ma for her, ’till she was sot free and could hurry back.  I dreampt last night that ole mistiss called me and Bedney, and said ’Take good care of Ellice’; and I got right out of bed and packed my trunk.  I’m just from the penitenchery, and that poor tormented child don’t know me, don’t know nothing.  Trouble have run her plum crazy, and what with brain fever and them lie-yers, God only knows what’s to become of her.  Handi’ons ain’t the only godforsaken things folks are murdered with.  Miss Leo, promise me you will go to see her while I am gone, and ’tend to it that she has good nussing.”

“I will do what is possible for her comfort; and as it will be an expensive journey to you, I will also help you to pay your passage to New York.  How much money—­”

“I don’t want your money, Miss Leo.  Bedney and me never is beholdin’ to nobody for money.  We was too sharp to drap our savings in the ‘Freedman’s Bank’, ’cause we ’spicioned the bottom was not soddered tight, and Marster’s britches’ pocket was a good enough bank for us.  We don’t need to beg, borrow, nor steal.  As I tole you, I was the seamstress, and just before Miss Ellice run away from the school, ole mistiss had a fine lot of bran-new clothes made ready for her when she come home to be a young lady.  She never did come home, and when ole mistiss died I jist tuck them new clothes I had made, and packed ’em in a wooden chist, and kept ’em hid away; ’cause I was determed nobody but Miss Ellice should wear ’em.  I’ve hid ’em twenty-three years, and now I’ve had ’em done up, and one-half I tuck to that jail, for that poor young thing, and the rest of ’em I’m gwine to carry to Miss Ellice.  They shan’t need money nor clothes; for Bedney and me has got too much famly pride to let outsiders do for our own folks; but Miss Leo, you can do what nobody else in this wide world can.  I ain’t a gwine to walk the devil ’round the stump, and you mustn’t take no ’fence when I jumps plum to the pint.  Mars Lennox is huntin’ down Miss Ellice’s child like a hungry hound runs a rabbit, and I want you to call him off.  If he thinks half as much of you as he oughter, you can stop him.  Oh, Miss Leo, for God’s sake—­call him off—­muzzle him!”

Leo rose haughtily, and a quick flush fired her cheek; but as she looked at the old woman’s quivering mouth and streaming eyes, compassion arrested her displeasure.

“Aunt Dyce, there are some things with which ladies should not meddle; and I cannot interfere with any gentleman’s business affairs.”