"And what do you think I am going to do with it, mammy?" said Evelyn, when finally, having done her very best, she was willing to call it finished.
"Yer know some'h'n' baby? Ef-ef-ef I had de money, look like I'd buy that story myse'f. Seem some way like I loves it. Co'se I couldn't read it; but my min' been on it so long, seem like, ef I'd study de pages good dee'd open up ter me. What yer gwine do wid it, baby?"
"Oh, mammy, I can hardly tell you! My heart seems in my throat when I dare to think of it; but I'm going to try it. A New York magazine has offered five hundred dollars for a best story—five hundred dollars! Think, mammy, what it would do for us!"
"Dat wouldn't buy de plantatiom back, would it, baby?" Mammy had no conception of large sums.
"We don't want it back, mammy. It would pay for moving our dear ones to graves of their own; we should put a nice sum in bank; you shouldn't do any more washing; and if we can write one good story, you know we can write more. It will be only a beginning."
"An' I tell yer what I gwine do. I gwine pray over it good, des like I been doin' f'om de start, an' ef hit's Gord's will, dem folks 'll be moved in de sperit ter sen' 'long de money."
And so the story was sent.
After it was gone the atmosphere seemed brighter. The pending decision was now a fixed point to which all their hopes were directed.
The very audacity of the effort seemed inspiration to more ambitious work; and during the long summer, while in her busy hands the fluting-machine went round and round, Evelyn's mind was full of plans for the future.
Finally, December, with its promise of the momentous decision, was come, and Evelyn found herself full of anxious misgivings.