“Very slightly, I regret to say, though my dear mother, who died when I was a babe, was Romaine Guyon, the sister of Henry Guyon, who died three years ago.”
Lucy’s eyes opened to their widest extent, and for a moment she seemed deprived of the power of speech, and then she exclaimed:
“Now de Lor’ hab mercy on my po’ ole soul! Young mist’ess, yo’ ain’t nebber de darter ob Miss Yomaine, wot married dat young man f’om de Wes’, named F’onde?”
“Yes, I am her daughter.”
“Well, Lor’, I might ’a’ knowed it by de likeness, well as de manners—so I might. To fink ob meetin’ ob yo’ yere, in dis bressed house, in dis furrin city ob Washington! Well, wunners will nebber cease! An’ jes’ as I hab foun’ yo’ out yo’s gwine to leabe!”
And here Lucy put her apron up to her eyes and sobbed aloud.
“See here, I did not tell you this to distress you, but to open a way for better days to come. I know that many of you elderly colored people who came to the city to live and find work are disappointed, either in work or wages, or in the ability of adapting yourselves to the new circumstances.”
“Wot dat yo’ say, young mist’ess? Please say it ober ag’in. I doane quite take it all in.”
“I meant that some of you come to the city and don’t find what you want, and would rather go back to the country, if you could.”
“Dat’s so! Lor’, ’tain’t ’cause people ain’t good to me, ’cause dey is. But—no—’tain’t ’cause dey doane gib good wages, ’cause dey does; but, honey, it’s f’eedom one way, an’ not f’eedom ’nudder way.”