"Yass'm, pretty well, but not nothin' like hit useter be back in ole
Vehginny, when 'bout er hunderd niggers git to prayin' all to onct.
Thass whut goin' to fotch the powah on er suffrin' human soul—yes, ma'm!"
"Now, Aunt Lucy," said Mary Ellen sagely, "there isn't anything wrong with your soul at all. You're as good an old thing as ever breathed, I'm sure of that, and the Lord will reward you if he ever does any one, white or black."
"Does you think that, honey?"
"Indeed I do."
"Well, sometimes I thinks the Lord ain' goin' to fergive me fer all ther devilment I done when I was l'il. You know, Miss Ma'y Ellen, hit take a life er prayer to wipe out ouah transgresshuns. Now, how kin I pray, not to say pray, out yer, in this yer lan'? They ain't a chu'ch in a hunderd mile o' yer, so fer's I kin tell, an' they shoh'ly ain't no chu'ch fer cullud folks. Law me, Miss Ma'y Ellen, they ain't ary nother nigger out yer nowheres, an' you don' know how lonesome I does git! Seems to me like, ef I c'd jess know er sengle nigger, so'st we c'd meet onct in er while, an' so'st we c'd jess kneel down togetheh an' pray comfer'ble like, same's ef 'twus back in ole Vehginny—why, Miss Ma'y Ellen, I'd be the happiest ole 'ooman ever you did see. Mighty bad sort o' feelin', when a pusson ain't right shore 'bout they soul. An' when I has to pray erlone, I kain't never be right shore!"
Mary Ellen rose and went to her room, returning with her guitar. She seated herself upon the side of the bed near Aunt Lucy—an act which would have been impossible of belief back in old Virginia—and touched a few low chords. "Listen, Aunt Lucy," she said; "I will play and you may sing. That will make you feel better, I think."
It was only from a perfect understanding of the negro character that this proposal could come, and only a perfect dignity could carry it out with grace; yet there, beneath the floor of the wide prairie sea, these strange exercises were carried on, the low throbbing of the strings according with the quavering minors of the old-time hymns, until Aunt Lucy wiped her eyes and smiled.
"Thank yer. Miss Ma'y' Ellen," she said; "thank yer a thousand times. You shoh'ly does know how toe comfort folks mighty well, even a pore ole nigger. Law bless yer, honey, whut c'd I do without yer, me out yer all erlone? Seems like the Lord done gone 'way fur off, 'n I kain't fotch him noways; but when white folks like Miss Ma'y Ellen Beecham come set down right side o' me an' sing wif me, den I know ther Lord, he standin' by listenin'. Yas'm, he shoh'ly goin' to incline his eah!"
Women are women. There is no synonym. Women, white and white, black and black, or, if need be, white and black, have sympathies and understandings and revealings which they never carry to the opposite sex. It is likely that no man ever explored the last intricacy of that sweet and wondrous maze, a woman's heart; yet the woman who marries, and who has with her a husband, sets herself for the time outside the circle of all other husbandless women who may be about her. Thus it was that—without any loss of self-respect upon the one side, or any forgetfulness upon the other of that immovable line between black and white which had been part of the immemorial creed of both—Mary Ellen and Aunt Lucy, being companionless, sometimes drifted together in the way of things.
On the morning following Aunt Lucy's devotional exercises that good soul seemed to be altogether happy and contented, and without any doubts as to her future welfare. She busied herself with the preparation of the food for the chickens, meantime half unconsciously humming a song in reminiscent minor. "Custard pie—custard pie," she sang, softly, yet unctuously, as she stirred and mingled the materials before her; "custard pie—custard pie. Hope ter eat hit twell I die—twell I die."