And so it was always. With her heart trembling within her, Evelyn went to her desk. "Surely," she thought, "there is much need that I shall do my best." Almost reverentially she took her pen, as she proceeded with the true story she had begun.
"I done changed my min' 'bout dat ole 'oman wha' stan' fur me, baby," said mammy that night. "You leave 'er des like she is. She glorifies de story a heap better'n my nachel self could do it. I been a-thinkin' 'bout it, an' de finer that ole 'oman ac', an' de mo' granjer yer lay on 'er, de better yer gwine meck de book, 'caze de ole gemplum wha' stan' fur ole marster, his times an' seasons is done past, an' he can't do nothin' but set still an' wait, an'—an' de yo'ng missus, she ain't fitten ter wrastle on de outskirts; she ain't nothin' but 'cep' des a lovin' sweet saint, wid 'er face set ter a high, far mark—"
"Hush, mammy!"
"I'm a-talkin' 'bout de book, baby, an' don't you interrup' me no mo'! An' I say ef dis ole 'oman wha' stan' fur me, ef-ef-ef she got a weak spot in 'er, dey won't be no story to it. She de one wha' got ter stan' by de battlemints an' hol' de fort."
"That's just what you are doing, mammy. There isn't a grain in her that is finer than you."
"'Sh! dis ain't no time fur foolishness, baby. Yer 'ain't said nothin' 'bout yo' ma an' de ole black 'oman's baby bein' borned de same day, is yer? An' how de ole 'oman nussed 'em bofe des like twins? An'—an' how folks 'cused 'er o' starvin' 'er own baby on de 'count o' yo' ma bein' puny? (But dat warn't true.) Maybe yer better leave all dat out, 'caze hit mought spile de story."
"How could it spoil it, mammy?"
"Don't yer see, ef folks knowed dat dem white folks an' dat ole black 'oman was dat close-t, dey wouldn't be no principle in it. Dey ain't nothin' but love in dat, an' de ole 'oman couldn't he'p 'erse'f, no mo'n I could he'p it! No right-minded pusson is gwine ter deny dey own heart. Yer better leave all dat out, honey. B-b-but deys some'h'n' else wha' been lef out, wha' b'long in de book. Yer 'ain't named de way de little mistus sot up all nights an' nussed de ole 'oman time she was sick, an'—an'—an' de way she sew all de ole 'oman's cloze; an'—an'—an' yer done lef' out a heap o' de purtiness an' de sweetness o' de yo'ng mistus! Dis is a book, baby, an'—an'—yer boun' ter do jestice!"
In this fashion the story was written.