“Her name is Mumma,” repeated she, with emphasis. “Oh, my mother’s got two names. She is named Mumma and she is named Mrs. Poythress.”
“Ah, yes; but what does your father call her?”
“My papa calls my mumma my dear; oh, and sometimes he calls her ‘honey,’—because she is so sweet.”
“Does he ever call her—let me see—does he ever call her Polly?”
“Oh, me, the idea!” cried she, raising her hands and eyes in infantile pity of his ignorance. “Why, that’s Aunt Polly’s name!”
“So your Aunt Polly is named Polly, is she?”
“No, she ain’t! Aunt Polly is named Aunt Polly. She is our cook at our house, she is.”
“She is your cook, is she? And what does she call your mother?”
“Mistiss.”
Just then the mulatto barber, passing by, doffed his hat to the gentleman; and Dolly, the nurse, left alone, bethought her of her charge. Coming up, she dropped a courtesy to the Stranger, and told Laura it was time she were within doors.