"Didn' say; she wrote."
Peter looked around, frankly astonished.
"Wrote?"
"Yeah; co'se she wrote."
"What made her write?" a fantasy of Ida May dumb flickered before the mulatto.
Up and Down Its Street Flows the Slow Negro Life of The Village
"Why, Ida May's in Nashville." Caroline looked at Peter. "She wrote to Cissie, astin' 'bout you. She ast is you as bright in yo' books as you is in yo' color." The old negress gave a pleased abdominal chuckle as she admired her broad-shouldered brown son.
"But I saw Ida May standing on the wharf-boat the day I came home," protested Peter, still bewildered.