But before Joe could explain, Mammy’s arms were about her in one wild ecstasy of delight, and then dropping into a chair she drew Sylvia to her lap.
“O’ course it was Sunnyside, chile! what else could it be after yo’ sayin’ you owned de corals an’ de tinsel belt? I gave dem all three to my little daughter thirty years an’ more ago. Yo’ b’longs ter me!”
“But, Mammy dear, who do you suppose I am?” her arms close about Mammy’s neck.
“Yo’ my little gran’chile, Honey, my little gran’chile come back ter me after all dese years——-”
“But how can you be sure, Mammy? My having the things doesn’t surely make me your grandchild,” and Sylvia looked as though not to be able to be perfectly certain at last would quite break her heart.
“Sure by eb’ryt’ing ‘bout you, Honey; by yo’ face, by yo’ hands, by de way you walk, by yo’ ebery motion, by de way you drink a cup o’ tea. Maria was jus’ about yo’ age when she was sol’ away from me, an’ sometimes you’ve so much ‘minded me of her I could scarce bear to look at you, neber dreamin’ you could possibly b’long ter me. But, Sylvy,” and Mammy’s voice at once grew troubled with the thought that occurred to her, “why hab you neber done try to fin’ yo’ own people, chile?” "Why, Mammy! I knew nothing about myself at all. I was just pushed into the door of a coloured orphan asylum in Brooklyn, when I was a little bit of a girl, by a very old woman I remember, and I never saw or heard of her again. There was a little piece of paper pinned on to my dress which merely said, ‘This little girl hasn’t got any father or mother,’ and that my name was Sylvia.”
“Then yo’ mamma’s daid, is she?” said Mammy in a low voice, as though speaking to herself. “I wonder who she married an’ how she drifted ‘way up North, an’ why she never wrote to her old Mammy—but we’ll never know in dis work, will we, Honey?—but no matter, no matter, we’s got each oder now, Sylvy,” and Mammy stroked Sylvia’s hair with one trembling hand, as the happy realisation chased all the sadness from her face. “Maria coaxed that little belt from me,” she continued, never one moment taking her eyes from Sylvia’s face, “one day long ’fo’ she was sol’ from me. My Missus had given it to me when I was jus’ a slip of a girl. She gave me the dear book too, but I put that into Maria’s pocket an’ begged her to read it now an’ again, cause Maria allers seemed too lighthearted to give much ’tention to religion. Seems as d’ough I could hardly wait, Sylvy, to lay my eyes on d’ose little keepsakes once more. An’, Sylvy chile, do you ‘member what you said first words you spoke ter me an’ Joe? You said, ‘I thought I should find some of my own people down here in Virginia.’ ‘Lor, chile, you didn’t dream what gospel trufes you were speakin’.”