Soon after I saw the poor old woman bent almost double with the weight of fagots on her back, and her check apron filled with chips and corn-cobs from the wood-yard. I raised the sash, and called her:
"Aunt Susan, do come in! Flora will get your breakfast, and you can take some home with you for granny," said I.
She lowered the bundle of fagots from her shoulders, and pushed back the long gingham sun-bonnet, as she looked up at my window.
"Bless yer heart, chile, but I couldn't—wouldn't!" She shook her head very decidedly, and adjusted the red bandana turban which had been crushed down by the sun-bonnet. "Ye see, me and granny ain't had fambly prayers yit this morning. That's it; obliged to yer jes' the same."
I suggested that our Heavenly Father would not reject prayers that were offered after breakfast. She looked up at me as I leaned from the window to catch the glory of the sunrise, and said, with rather a touch of sadness in her tone:
"No, chile, yer hadn't oughter think so. De Lord fust, an' everything else afterwards. Ef ye eat, or ef ye drink, do it all to de glory of God; but it tain't ter His glory ef yer please yerself fust. I'll be round biemby; then we 'splain the matter together." And reloading her tired shoulders, she tottered off under her burden.
This poor colored woman, bent down by her seventy years of sickness, and poverty, and hard work, and constant care, had a conscience so tender that nothing could have induced her to partake of the proffered meal before she had offered up her morning prayer, lest the act might seem like want of reverence and respect.
This was not an occasional spasmodic outburst of piety; she seemed always anxious to talk about God, and, as she could not read herself, to hear others read about Him. I never knew one who seemed to be in such constant and close communion with God. In my visits among the poor, I remember calling at her door one day, and being obliged to wait some time after knocking, although I heard her voice within. I was surprised that she should keep me waiting, for she had such a delicate sense of the duties of hospitality that she was particularly careful never to oblige a visitor to remain standing at her door. I soon discovered that she was engaged in prayer; one greater than any earthly guest was with her; it almost seemed as if she pleaded before one who was visibly present. She waited and wept, she urged, entreated, and earnestly pleaded; then gradually her tone changed, and her voice rose in prayer and loud hallelujahs, and then she was silent. I knocked once more, and hastily now she threw open the door; the traces of tears were still on her cheeks, and in her poor, dim eyes.
"Welcome, welcome!" she exclaimed: "come in. De Lord's bin wid me dis day. Praise and bless His holy name. I'se had sich a blessed time."