The big black face lighted up with a broad smile as the old woman extended her hand and enveloped that of the young minister's.
"Come in," she said. "I's mighty glad to see you—that no-'count Tom come put' nigh mekin' me 'spose myse'f." Then turning to Tom, she exclaimed with good-natured severity, "An' you go 'long, you scoun'll you!"
The preacher entered the cabin—it was hardly more—and seated himself in the rush-bottomed chair which "A'nt Ca'line" had been industriously polishing with her apron.
"An' now, Brothah——"
"Dokesbury," supplemented the young man.
"Brothah Dokesbury, I jes' want you to mek yo'se'f at home right erway. I know you ain't use to ouah ways down hyeah; but you jes' got to set in an' git ust to 'em. You mus'n' feel bad ef things don't go yo' way f'om de ve'y fust. Have you got a mammy?"
The question was very abrupt, and a lump suddenly jumped up in Dokesbury's throat and pushed the water into his eyes. He did have a mother away back there at home. She was all alone, and he was her heart and the hope of her life.
"Yes," he said, "I've got a little mother up there in Ohio."
"Well, I's gwine to be yo' mothah down hyeah; dat is, ef I ain't too rough an' common fu' you."