I tried again.
"Does it look like anybody you ever saw, Aunt Chloe?"
"It do an' it don't," she answered critically. "De feet is like hern, but de eyes ain't."
"Who?"
"Oh, Miss Nannie." And she leaned again on her broom and looked down on the floor.
I heaped up a little pile of pigments on one corner of my palette and flattened them for a high light on a fold in the satin gown.
"Who was Miss Nannie?" I asked carelessly. I was afraid the thread would break if I pulled too hard.
"One o' my chillen, honey." A peculiar softness came into her voice.
"Tell me about her. It will help me get her eyes right, so you can remember her better. They don't look human enough to me anyhow" (this last to myself). "Where did she live?"
"Where dey all live—-down in de big house. She warn't Marse Henry's real chile, but she come o' de blood. She didn't hab dem kind o' shoes on her footses when I fust see her, but she wore 'em when she lef' me. Dat she did." Her voice rose suddenly and her eyes brightened. "And dem ain't nothin' to de way dey shined. I ain't never seen no satin slippers shine like dem slippers; dey was jes' ablaze!"