Mrs. Marshall looked up at the fat smiling Mammy Ca’line, beaming in her red bandanna.
“Mammy,” asked Mrs. Marshall, “is this some of our own butter?”
“Ouah own buttah!” exclaimed the grinning cook, maid and all-around servant. “Fo’ the lans’ sake, Miss Marshall, we ain’t made no buttah on dis place sense ole Marse done gone, fo’ yars come dis fall.”
Mrs. Marshall sighed.
“Why don’t you?” snapped Morey with a tone that reminded his mother of his dead father.
“Why don’t we?” laughed old Ca’line. “I reckon you boun’ to have cows to make buttah—leastways a cow. Dat ole Ma’sh Green don’ keep no cows no mo’.”
Morey laughed.
“Runnin’ on the cheaps, eh?”
But his mother only smiled and sipped her coffee.
As the hungry, happy boy helped himself to one of the three thin slices of bacon, old Ca’line leaned toward her mistress and said, in a low voice: