"No, he can't come till nex' Saturday," answered the porter.
"Well, I'm mighty dis'pinted. I been a-waitin' an' a-waitin' till I mos' gin out. Ain't nobody helped me like him. You tol' me las' time dat he'd be here to-day," and her voice shook. "You tell him I got his letter an' dat I think 'bout him night an' day, an' dat I'd rudder see him dan anybody in de worl'. And you tell him—an' doan' ye forgit dis—dat you see his sister Maria's chile—dis is her—hol' up yer haid, honey, an' let him see ye. I thought if he come to-day he'd like to see 'er, 'cause he useter tote her roun' on his back when she warn't big'r'n a shote. An' ye see him, did ye? Well, I'm mighty glad o' dat."
She was bending forward, her great black hand on his wrist, her eyes fixed on his. Then a startled, anxious look crossed her face.
"But he ain't sick dat he didn't come? Yo' sho' now, he ain't sick?"
"Oh, no; never see him lookin' so good."
The porter was evidently anxious about the train, for he kept backing away toward his car.
"Well, den, good-by; but doan' ye forgit. Tell him ye see me an' dat I 'm a-hungerin' for him. You hear, a-hungerin' for him, an' dat I can't git 'long no mo' widout him. Don' ye forgit, now, 'cause I mos' daid a-waitin' for him. Good-by."
The train rolled on. She was still on the platform, her gaunt figure outlined against the morning sky, her eager eyes strained toward us, the child clutching her skirts.
I confess that I have never yet outgrown my affection for the colored race: an affection at best, perhaps, born of the dim, undefined memories of my childhood and of an old black mammy—my father's slave—who crooned over me all day long, and sang me lullabies at night.