“Why Roy, baby, what is it!” asked Peggy, as she would have spoken to a child.  The little thing could only press closer and nicker its baby nicker.  Peggy hesitated a moment, then said:  “It will never do to leave you now.  You are half starved, you poor little thing.  Eight weeks are not many to have lived.  Come.”  And as though he understood every word and was comforted, the baby horse nickered again and walked close by her side.  She went straight to the house, circling the garden, rich in early spring blossoms, to enter a little inclosure around which the servants’ quarters were built, one building, a trifle more pretentious than the rest, evidently that of some upper servant.  As Peggy and her four-footed companion drew near, a trim little old colored woman looked out of the door.  She was immaculate in a black and white checked gingham, a large white apron and a white turban, suggestive of ante-bellum days.  Instantly noting signs of distress upon her young mistress’ face she hurried toward her, crying softly in her melodious voice: 

“Baby!  Honey!  What’s de matter?  ‘What’s done happen?  What fo’ yo’ bring Roy up hyer?  Where de Empress at?”

“Oh Mammy, Mammy, the Empress is dead.  She—­”

“What dat yo’ tellin’ me, baby?  De Empress daid?  Ma Lawd, wha’ Massa Neil gwine do to we-all when he hyar dat?  He gwine kill somebody dat’s sartin suah.  What kill her?”

Peggy told the story briefly, Mammy Lucy, who had been mammy to her and her father before her, listening attentively, nodding her head and clicking her tongue in consternation.  Such news was overwhelming.

But Mammy Lucy had not lived on this estate for over sixty years without storing up some wisdom for emergencies, and before Peggy had finished the pitiful tale she was on her way to the great kitchen at the opposite end of the inclosure where Aunt Cynthia ruled as dusky goddess of the shining copper kettles and pans upon the wall.

“Sis Cynthy, we-all in trebbilation and we gotter holp dis hyer pore chile.  She lak fer ter breck her heart ’bout de Empress and she sho will if dis hyer colt come ter harm.  Please, ma’am, gimme a basin o’ fresh, warm milk.  Bud he done gone down ter ‘Napolis fer a nussin’ bottle, but dat baby yonder gwine faint an’ die fo’ dat no ’count nigger git back wid dat bottle.  I knows him, I does.”

“Howyo’ gwine mak’ dat colt drink?” asked Cynthia skeptically.

“De Lawd on’y knows, but he gwine show me how,” was Mammy Lucy’s pious answer.  The next second she cried “Praise Him! I got it,” and ran into her cabin to return with a piece of snowy white flannel.  Meanwhile Cynthia had warmed the bowlful of milk.  Hastily catching up a huge oilcloth apron, Mammy enveloped herself in it and then hurried back to Peggy and her charge.

From that moment Roy’s artificial feeding began.  Peggy raised his head while Mammy opened his mouth by inserting a skilful finger where later the bit would rest, then slipped in the milk-sopped woolen rag.  After a few minutes the small beastie which had never known fear, understood and sucked away vigorously, for he had not fed for hours and the poor inner-colt was grumbling sorely at the long fast.  The bowlful of milk soon disappeared, and he stood nozzling at Peggy ready for a frolic, his woes forgotten.