“Oh, Mammy, it's so good to have you again—so good, and I thought you never would come.”
They walked away from Cottontown and past pretty houses. In a quiet street, with oaks and elms shading it, she entered a yard in which stood a pretty and nicely painted cottage. Lily clapped her hands with laughter when she found all her old things there—even her pet dolls to welcome her—all in the cunningest and quaintest room imaginable. The next room was her father's, and Mammy's room was next to hers and Helen's. She ran out only to run into her father's arms. Small as she was, she saw that he was sober. He took her on his lap and kissed her.
“My little one,” he said—“my little one”—
“Mammy,” asked the little girl as the old woman came out—“how did you get all this?”
“Been savin' it all my life, chile—all the money yo' blessed mother give me an' all I earned sence I was free. I laid it up for a rainy day an' now, bless God, it's not only rainin' but sleetin' an' cold an' snowin' besides, an' so I went to the old socks. It's you all's, an' all paid fur, an' old mammy to wait on you. I'm gwine to go after Miss Helen before the mill closes, else she'll be gwine back to Millwood, knowin' nothin' of all this surprise for her. No, sah,—nary one of yo' mother's chillun shall ever wuck in a mill.”
Conway bowed his head. Then he drew Lily to him as he knelt and said: “Oh, God help me—make me a man, make me a Conway again.”
It was his first prayer in years—the beginning of his reformation. And every reformation began with a prayer.