Kingsley was too dumfounded to speak. In all his life never had his hypocrisy been knocked to pieces so completely.
“What does all this mean?” asked Jud Carpenter rushing hastily into the room.
“Come on baby,” said the old woman as she started toward the door. “I've got a home for us, an' whilst old mammy can take in washin' you'll not wuck yo' life out with these people.”
Jud broke in harshly: “Come, ole 'oman,—you put that child down. You've got nothin' to support her with.”
She turned on him quickly: “I've got mo' silver tied up in ole socks that the Conways give me in slavery days when they had it by the bushel, than sech as you ever seed. Got nothin'? Jus' you come over and see the little home I've got fixed up for Marse Ned an' the babies. Got nothin'? See these arms? Do you think they have forgot how to cook an' wash? Come on, baby—we'll be gwine home—Miss Helen'll come later.”
“Put her down, old woman,” said Carpenter sternly. “You can't take her—she's bound to the mill.”
“Oh, I can't?” said the old woman as she walked out with Lily—“Can't take her. Well, jes' look at me an' see. This is what I calls Zion, an' the Lam' an' the wolves had better stay right where they are,” she remarked dryly, as she walked off carrying Lily in her arms.
Down through a pretty part of the town, away from Cottontown, she led the little girl, laughing now and chatting by the old woman's side, a bird freed from a cage.
“And you'll bring sister Helen, too?” asked Lily.
“That I will, pet,—she'll be home to-night.”