Now the light from the doorway fell upon her, and surely five score years were written on her curiously wrinkled face––five score, or more, for even the negroes did not profess to know how old she was. Her bent figure, watery eyes and high shrill voice bore additional testimony to her age.
“Yo’s home earlier dan usual, dearie?” she resumed. “But yo’ supper’s all ready. Sit down here.”
“I’m not hungry, auntie,” he returned.
“Not hungry, honey?” she cried, laughing shrilly. “Yo’ wait!” And she disappeared into an adjoining room, soon to emerge with a steaming platter, which she set on the snow-white cover of the little table. Removing the lid from the dish, she hobbled back a few steps to regard her guest with triumphant expectation. “Dat make yo’ eat.”
“What a cook you are, mammy!” he said, lightly. “You would give a longing tooth to satiety.”
“De debil blow de fire,” she answered, chuckling.
“Then the devil is a chef de cuisine. This sauce is bewitching.”
“Yo’ like it?” Delighted.
“Tis a spell in itself. Confess, mammy, Old Nick mixed it?”