ABOUT five months after Rosy’s marriage her old grandmother’s “misery” become greater than she could endure, or ruther a sudden cold which she took proved fatal to her, and she took to her bed, and after a week’s illness passed away.
She wuz stayin’ with Rosy when she wuz took sick, and Maggie and I did everything we could do to relieve her wants and help her; but I see the first time I put my eyes on her face after her seizure that we could not help her—it wuz pneumonia; it carried her off after a few days of sufferin’.
The night before her death I went down to her cabin with a basket of jelly and broth and fruit, but she wuz beyend takin’ any nourishment.
She wuz propped up on pillows, her black face in marked contrast to the snowy linen that Maggie had furnished for her bed.
Genieve, patient nurse, wuz settin’ by her, her beautiful face wearin’ its usual look of triumphant sorrow, joyful ignominy, or—I don’t know as I can describe the look in words, but, anyway, she had the look she always had, different from anybody else’s, more sorrowful, more riz up, more inspired.
The Book of books wuz in her hand; she had been readin’ to her till she had fallen asleep.
At last Aunt Clo opened her eyes and looked up long and thoughtfully into the beautiful and pityin’ face bent above her, and finally she said to Genieve:
“Honey, did you come down out’n de Belovéd City dat you read me about?”
“Oh, no, Aunt Clo. Don’t you know me? I am Genieve, your old friend Genieve.”