"'I mean,—lean on me, dear, lean on me,—I mean dat if our blessed Lord wus on earth today, an' we could kneel at his feet askin' de life of our boy, he could not give it ter us. For Allan's grave has not been dug, an' Allan is livin' not dead today.'
"'What have you heard?'
"'A messenger has come.'
"Then I saw a transformation. Aunt Sarah sprang up, the color and light flashing into cheeks and eyes, the vigor and erectness of youth restored to her shrunken and bowed figure. No longer a haggard old woman,—like a girl she threw open the door, and swept past me without a word."
"Gran'mammy's Last Gifts" has to do with the closing hours of her life.
The children that the old nurse had tended from infancy now gather around her bed. She had her daughter look in her chest and take from it a parcel. "The parcel was handed her, and taking off the outer covering, a white one was revealed; then a third wrapper of silver paper. Slowly, reverently, she unwound this; and there were two tiny, high-heeled satin slippers, yellow with age, but dainty enough for fairy feet.
"'De night your mother was married, honey,' said gran'mammy proudly, "nobody waited on her but me. I unlaced de fine weddin' dress,—all lace an' satin,—an' I put de white nightgown over her head. An' when I took de slippers off her slim pretty feet, she flung her white arms aroun' my neck, an' she says, "keep 'em gran'mammy, in memory o' dis night." An' now, my chile, arter all dese years, I gives em ter you' de fustborn, your dead mother's weddin' slippers.'
"I could not speak for my tears. Was there ever a gift so delicately bestowed? I pressed the slippers to my heart kissing them and the faithful black hands that had taken them from the little feet so many years ago.
"'Now my little singin'-bird,' said gran'mammy to Ruth, 'I was boun' you should remember me; so I jes' went to de picture man, an' here's my ole black face for you to keep.'
"The likeness was perfect; and as Ruth warmly thanked her she sank back wearily on the pillows.