“Lady,” began Owlet.
“Why don’t you call me aunty, dear?” inquired Miss Fronde.
Owlet looked at her solemnly, and replied:
“If any one but you had asked me such a question I should say they were not possessed of common sense.”
“But—why?” Roma questioned.
“’Cause you are not an auntie. The old colored people are aunties, but you are a young white lady.”
“I stand rebuked. What were you about to say to me, ma’am, when I was so rude as to interrupt you?” inquired Roma.
“I was going to ask you if you wouldn’t please let Ducky Darling learn lessons along with me.”
This seemed rather a startling proposal, but a suggestive one. There were about fifteen adult negroes on the plantation, none of whom could read or write. There were about twenty growing children, none of whom knew a letter. Roma had never given a thought to this state of things. The child’s question aroused her conscience. Here was a field of work and of duty, indeed.
“Lady, why don’t you answer me? If you won’t let Ducky Darling come in here and learn along with me, tell me so, and I’ll take my primer and go out in the garden and learn my lesson along with her, and teach it to her, too,” said Owlet.