"My poor little boy!" she said, "Jerusha's the cook, and a very good friend to all of us. People in the South call a good old servant like that 'aunt' when they like her as much as we do Jerusha. She used to be a slave; we brought her from Maryland."
"And she's not my really truly aunt at all?"
"Of course not, you foolish little boy! Didn't you see she was a negress?"
"Oh yes, I saw that."
He shuddered.
"And didn't you see she waited on us at the table?"
"Yes, but so does Aunt Hannah in Boston on Sundays."
"Does she?" Then seeing the child's anxiety was not quite dissipated: "Didn't you notice when she'd finished waiting at supper Jerusha went back to the kitchen? Now, if she'd been a real aunt—"
"Well, you see, I did think of that, but I thought perhaps aunts didn't come and sit in the parlor here, and I remembered how she—she"—he looked down and grew scarlet—"tried to kiss me at the station."
"Oh yes, she might do that. You see, she was very fond of your father."