To her dismay the old woman shook her turbaned head and answered:
“Dere ain’t a soul on de place but me, honey. De men aine come f’om de corn-fiel’ yet, and my ole man tuck de ole mare dis morn’ and car’e’ some spring chickings down to de White Sulphur Springs, and he won’t git back till de cool o’ de night!”
“My gracious, this is awful,” said Molly, in dismay. Then she brightened and beamed on the old woman. “Won’t you go with me, Aunt Betsy?” she exclaimed.
“Lor’ me, chile, I got rheumatiz too bad! I aine walk as far ez Ferndale in two years. My laig all drawed wid rheumatiz. Set down an’ wait till de men come from de fiel’s, den you hab company to take you home.”
“How long until they come?”
“Two, free hours, I ’spect. Dey’s gwine work late, dey said, tryin’ to git all de corn plantin’ done tonight.”
Molly flung herself down tempestuously on the kitchen door-step, leaned her dark, curly head against Aunt Betsy’s linsey knee, and dissolved into stormy sobs and tears.
Aunt Betsy’s tender heart was touched to its center.
“Lor’ honey, you make me t’ink o’ my little white chillern I used to nurse, a-comin’ and layin’ deir curly heads ’g’in deir black mammy’s knee, and cryin’ and sobbin’! Hush, honey; I’ll fix a way fur ye—on’y don’t cry so, fur it makes my heart ache, t’inkin’ o’ my little white nurslin’s ober in dat furrin’ kentry. Now tell me, honey, Miss Willie Whisk, kin you ride hossback?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Molly, unblushingly; for although she had never ridden horseback in her life, she said to herself undauntedly: