"Now, ef you goes ter de wash-tub, dey ain't nothin' lef fur me ter do but 'cep'n' ter set down an' write de story, an' you know I can't do it."
"But, mammy, I must help you."
"Is you gwine meck me whup yer, whe'r ur no, baby? Now I gwine meck a bargain wid yer. You set down an' write, an' I gwine play de pianner on de washboa'd, an' to-night you can read off what yer done put down, an' ef yer done written it purty an' sweet, you can come an' turn de flutin'-machine fur me ter-morrer. Yer gwine meck de bargain wid me, baby?"
Evelyn was so touched that she had not voice to answer. Rising from her seat, she put her arms around mammy's neck and kissed her old face, and as she turned away a tear rolled down her cheek. And so the "bargain" was sealed.
Before going to her desk Evelyn went to her father, to see that he wanted nothing. He sat, as usual, gazing silently out of the window.
"Daughter," said he, as she entered, "are we in France?"
"No, dear," she answered, startled at the question.
"But the language I hear in the street is French; and see the ship-masts—French flags flying. But there is the German too, and English, and last week there was a Scandinavian. Where are we truly, daughter? My surroundings confuse me."
"We are in New Orleans, father—in the French Quarter. Ships from almost everywhere come to this port, you know. Let us walk out to the levee this morning, and see the men-of-war in the river. The air will revive you."
"Well, if your mother comes. She might come while we were away."