“‘My land, honey, whar you come from?’ I says, and she huddled down closer than ever, and began to cry just like her heart was most broke. I stooped down to pick her up in my ahms”—Aunt Polly’s voice sank to a whisper—“and—she—wasn’t—there. I rubbed my eyes and looked agin, then I run to the doah and looked out; but they wasn’t nobody about. Then I got so skeered I banged the doah shut and run whoopin’ and screamin’ to the kitchen. Aunt Susan, the cook, grab me by the ahm. ‘Shut yo haid, girl, and tell me wha’s de mattah,’ she said. So I done told her all about it, and she just dropped all in a heap and she say: ‘O my Lawd, O my deah Lawd, the judgment am a comin’ agin! Tell me, gal, was dat baby laughin’ or cryin’?’ and I say, ‘Cryin’;’ and she say, ‘Ooh, my poo’ mistess;’ and I said, ‘Oh, Aunt Susan, what is it?’ She say: ‘Gal, you done see a ghost. Dat’s no baptized baby; dat’s a poo’ child dat was muhdard yeahs and yeahs ago by some wicked limb of dis fambly, fo’ to get its money. Whenever dat child comes here a weepin’ and a moanin’, dat’s de sign of a death; if it comes a laughin’, den it brings good luck to we-alls.’
“Well, I was that skeered to think I’d done seen a ghost, that I shuck all over, and couldn’t wait on the table. Well, honey, I kep’ a waitin’ for a death or somefin as bad; and ’bout a week later, my mastah’s oldest boy was out huntin’, and the gun went off too soon, and blowed the top of his haid plum off. They brought his torn and bloody cap home. I’d—seen—it—before.
“Aftah that, I was always watchin’ for that ghost-child, but I nevah seen her no more. But she came after that, fo’ my old mastah died; and there was othah troubles. Finally, aftah the wah, my old mistress moved to the city with young Mistah Tom, and left the house in the care of the overseeah of the plantation. Once a yeah Mistah Tom comes down and stays a week or so, lookin’ aftah things. He used to bring a lot of company with him, but since ole Miss died, he’s sobered down; don’t seem to cah fo’ company no more.
“And now, sugah, you come go to baid, so you can get up early, and go to school.”
“Aunt Polly, tell me first, do please tell me, where did you get me?”
Aunt Polly looked at her doubtfully.
“I dunno as you need to know. But yo ma was a lady, and yo pa a gentleman. You come of a good stock. Sometime I’ll tell you, but not now; so you go to sleep.”
The next morning Aunt Polly was up and away early. She left a dainty breakfast spread out for Dolores, and a little tin pail packed with a lunch for her school dinner. Dolores wakened later and lay debating the question of school. It is needless to say that Aunt Polly, with her lax government and her fondness for the child, was spoiling her completely. Dolores was a law unto herself, and came and went as she pleased. She was looked down upon by the girls at school, because she lived with Aunt Polly. She did not tell this to her, for she knew she would resent it bitterly. So she avoided them as much as possible, and many hours when Aunt Polly supposed that she was at school, she was wandering in the woods and fields.
She thought of her half promise given the night before in exchange for the ghost story, and resolved that she would go.
“My mother was a lady, and my father a gentleman; then why need I care for those white trash? Aunt Polly is better than they are. I reckon I’d better go. And I’ll go past the house, and peek in at the hall where Aunt Polly saw the ghost.”