The rich black voice laughed hugely at the question. "Is I gwine? Is Aunt Sarah gwine? Is you gwine! Better ask yer maw if she gwineter take you. Whar Mis' Mary Barbour goes, I goes!"
Pelham persisted, "But Aunt Jane isn't goin'."
Precise Sue took him up at once. "Of course she isn't. Aunt Jane's very, very old, Pell. She's 'mos' a hunderd. Aren't you, Aunt Jane?"
The aged cook snorted contemptuously. "What I is, I is, Miss Susie. I'se gwine ter yer Uncle Derrell's, I is."
The children gazed open-eyed. "Are you goin' to cook for him 'n' Aunt Eloise?" asked Pelham.
"Sho' I is, honey! Dey gotter have mah cookin', Mister Derrell he says."
The noise of the creaking wagons drawn up at the side door claimed the children's attention. They ran out to watch the first loading, hoping to be allowed to help.
Paul followed briskly, thoroughly at home as an executive, issuing his orders with precision. His active mind ranged even at this absorbing moment. Well, he was leaving a slate wiped clean! All of the Jackson investments had turned out finely; he has sold the real estate to advantage, so as to cover a large part of the mountain purchase money. The street railway stock he was still carrying; its regular income furnished a safe fund to fall back upon.
After the last load had been urged away, he walked with Mary through the echoing emptiness.
"We've been happy here, Paul," she observed quietly.