One more reminiscence, and the Grove Hill picture will be done. No Virginia home being complete without some prominent negro character, the picture lacking this would be untrue to nature, and without the finishing touch. And not to have "stepped in" to pay our respects to old Aunt Betsy during a visit to Grove Hill would have been looked upon—as it should be to omit it here—a great breach of civility; for the old woman always received us at her door with a cordial welcome and a hearty shake of the hand.
"Lor' bless de child'en!" she would say. "How dey does grow! Done grown up young ladies! Set down, honey. I mighty glad to see you. An' why didn't your ma[9] come? I would love to see Miss Fanny. She always was so good an' so pretty. Seems to me it aint been no time sence she and Miss Emma"—her own mistress—"use' to play dolls togedder, an' I use' to bake sweet cakes for dem, an' cut dem out wid de pepper-box top for dar doll parties; an' dey loved each other like sisters."
"HOW DEY DOES GROW!"—Page 86.
"Well, Aunt Betsy," we would ask, "how is your rheumatism now?"
"Lor', honey, I nuver spec's to git over dat. But some days I can hobble out an' feed de chickens; an' I can set at my window an' make the black child'en feed 'em, an' I love to think I'm some 'count to Miss Emma. An' Miss Emma's child'en can't do 'thout old 'Mammy Betsy,' for I takes care of all dar pet chickens. Me an' my ole man gittin' mighty ole now; but Miss Emma an' all her child'en so good to us we has pleasure in livin' yet."
At last the shadows began to fall dark and chill upon this once bright and happy home.
Old Aunt Betsy lived to see the four boys—her mistress's brave and noble sons—buckle their armor on and go forth to battle for the home they loved so well,—the youngest still so young that he loved his pet chickens, which were left to "Mammy Betsy's" special care; and when the sad news at length came that this favorite young master was killed, amid all the agony of grief no heart felt the great sorrow more sincerely than hers.
Another and still another of these noble youths fell after deeds of heroic valor, their graves the battlefield, a place of burial fit for men so brave. Only one—the youngest—was brought home to find a resting-place beside the graves of his ancestors.
The old man, their father, his mind shattered by grief, continued day after day, for several years, to sit in the vine-covered porch, gazing wistfully out, imagining sometimes that he saw in the distance the manly forms of his sons, returning home, mounted on their favorite horses, in the gray uniforms worn the day they went off.