Penny Wise

I.

IT was a puzzling situation for Penny, one that she had not yet made clear in her own mind, and despite her husband’s urging she was not ready for a decision.

“ You g’ ’long, an’ don’ you pester me no mo’; you des gwine make me spile dis soap,” and Penny plunged her sassafras stick savagely into the bubbling pot.

“ Penny, ole ’oman, lis’en ter reason,” pleaded a whining voice. “ Fur er man ter be selled, an’ his wife done free, wid er pocket full er money ” —

“ I done mek hit all wid dese ole han’s, ef I is.”

“ Me, er ’spounder er de gorspil, ter be selled by de crier, an’ you won’ buy me,” continued the voice.

“You mought er thought ’bout dat when you gittin’ so lazy Marse Jeems won’ keep you,” retorted the woman.

“ Oh, my sister, lis’en ter de Good Word whar hit say dat de mish’nary moughten tote no bags ner scrips, —hit do say dat, Penny.”

“ Hit don’ say he moughten tote er corn er er cotton sack ’dout huttin’ uv he ’ligion, — I say dat,” and the sassafras stick was raised high over her head by way of emphasis. “ Nuffin’ kin lay up an’ lib on nuffin’, but grasshoppers ; an’ grasshoppers, dey dies. Go ’way fum here, Jo Wilkerson, fur you ’min’s me uv er grasshopper, ’deed you does, wid you’ long lazy laigs an’ you’ ’backerspittin’ mouf, — you des bardaciously “min’s me uv ’im.”

“ You wa’n’t borned free ; you knows what’t is ter b’long ter somebody. Penny, oh, Penny,” and the voice prolonged its whine, “ how much money you got ? ”

“ ’Nough ter buy you, ef I wants ter, Jo, ’case Marse Jeems ’ud git shet uv you mighty cheap. Preachers don’ fetch much when dey sells ’em, white er black, — ain’ good fur much in dis country, ’cep’n’ talkin’ an’ eatin’ chickens.”

“ Penny, oh, Penny, buy me free ! Ef you buy me free, I tu’n ober er new leaf. Buy me free, fur de lub er Gord, Penny ! ”

“ Um ! wha’s dat I smells ? You Jo Wilkerson, cl’ar out fum here, — you done make me spile dis soap ! Cl’ar out, I say ! ”

Argument with scorched soap and an angry woman was useless, and the lazy body shambled listlessly down the road.

Old Jo Wilkerson had belonged to Abe Wilkerson, a solid, amiable, but illiterate planter, and had been a family inheritance, there having been an Old Jo for five succeeding generations, who had descended along with bad debts and a clubfoot to the eldest son of the Wilkersons; but the latest heir, Jeems, was an offshoot from the old stock, cross, dyspeptic, and even-footed.

Abe had been gathered to his fathers a few months before, and now that a period of mourning was over, the dawning of the new day was marked. Such a clearing and cleaning and hammering of carpenters, such a sorting of negroes and tightening of the reins of government, held loosely for so long!

“ Young marse hain’t no Marse Abe, ner Miss Polly nuther,” Jo ruefully acknowledged to the circle of dusky faces in the quarters.

Jo was incorrigible and inconsolable; coaxing availed little and lashing profited less, and at last Marse Jeems, aided and abetted by Miss Polly, had sworn a great black oath to sell Jo by the public crier at high noon on a Friday.

“ Black Friday, — hangin’ day, de day er quare happenin’s an’ onlucky tu’nin’s,” moaned Jo to his unsympathetic spouse.

The day dawned, bringing with it a heavy Scotch mist, which ere noon had developed into a steady downpour of rain. About the court square lingered a motley group of idlers, all with their hands in their pockets, waiting for the sale.

“ Yes, he ’s the onluckiest, or’nerest nigger it ever has been my misfortun’ to see,” and a spurt of tobacco juice upset the equipoise of a wet bluebottle that was vainly trying to dry its feet on the damp, sticky doorsill. “ It was a p’int o’ the law whether he owned pap or pap owned him, but I’m a-goin’ ter settle of it to-day, shore.”

“Jeems, don’t be a-runnin’ down of your own nigger. You spile the sale, an’ he won’t fetch nuthin’.”

“ I ’ll take what he ’ll fetch,” said Jeems, shooting again at the bluebottle. “ If I wait much longer, I won’t be able to give him away.”

The town clock struck twelve, and the crier shook himself and stamped his muddy boots, when slowly and dejectedly from some hidden corner drifted the luckless Jo.

“ Give his p’ints, Jeems, give his p’ints ! ” came from the throng of idlers.

Jeems muttered something which was greeted with shouts of laughter, and Jo backed humbly against the wall. His hands were folded, his head was bowed, and something like a raindrop or a tear trembled on his cheek.

“ Oh, my Lord, let de new marse’s years be deef, an’ de oberseer’s eyes be blin’ ! ” groaned Jo in the innermost depths of his anguished soul.

“ Give his p’ints, Jeems, give his p’ints! Don’t be back’ard ’bout braggin’ on yer own ! ” called a voice from the crowd.

Jeems thrust his hands deeper into his capacious pockets, and grinned.

But bidders there were none. Again and again the crier raised his voice : the group was neither augmented nor diminished,— the group, prosperous with few wants, and wealthy with abundant health. Again and again their sallies provoked a ring of merriment, to die upon the moment of expectation.

“ I’m swamped if the nigger shan’t git one bid,” exclaimed Jeems, suddenly waking to a sense of his ancestral dignity, “if it’s just for the sake uv ole pap ! I ’ll go a picayune ! ”

A burst of applause greeted the announcement.

“ I wanter own er nigger ! I ’ll go a bit! ” yelled a ragged, dirty urchin, turning a double pirouette on his bare, muddy heel.

“ Two bits ! ” “ Fo’ bits ! ” “ Six bits ! ” “ Dollar-naf ! ” came from various quarters.

There was a disturbance ; a huge basket of clothes made its appearance above the heads of the bystanders, and Penny stood in the midst. A moment, — the basket was at her feet, her arms were akimbo, and an unspoken something commanded a respectful hearing.

“ Gemmen,” said Penny, “ dar’s er law wha’ passes things by de will, an’ things widout de will, fum er man ter his son. Jo am one er dem things. Er man natcherly think mo’ uv er thing ’case hit’s his’n. But I has heared, gemmen, how dat Eshaw selled his birfright ter dat sly coon Jake fur er mess er potash ; an’ er mighty big mess hit were, I ’ll be boun’! Eshaw, he were er Jew. Marse Jeems, he ain’ no Jew, but he start he birfright, which were Jo, wid er po’ly picayune. I ’se ’shame’, gemmen, plumb ’shame’! In my Ole Miss’s fambly, dey han’s dey niggers down, lack dey han’sde silber, wid dey cres’; ain’ gwine ter sell dey teapot ’case hit’s ole an’ built up cu’is, dey dat proud er de cres’. But dar’s folks an’ folks. I ’se po’ an’ I ’se brack, but I ’se free an’ I ’se proud, — Ole Miss, she l’arned me dat, — an’ dey hain’t no man er mine gwine be bid fur by de bit, by po’ buckra ner quality nuther! ”

The idling group were silent; for once their ready wit had played them false. Gravely, Penny drew from her capacious, indignant bosom a gray stocking foot, and crossing the court she stood before the astonished Jeems. “ Misser Wilkerson,” she said, “ I ’se come ter buy dat nigger, an’ I wants de cote-’ouse papers ter ’im ; he’s wuf er hundud dollars, an’ here’s de hundud fur ’im ! ”

One by one she laid the bills in the open palm, and silently Jeems put them in his pocket. Then from the region of the departing basket came the solemn malediction : “ You has sole ter-day yer birfright ter a nigger; you has foul’ ter-day de nes’ yer farder lef’ you ; an’ w’en you comes ter die, de sperrit ain’ fergit it! ”

II.

Penny did not believe that she had made a good bargain. The purchase money was the price of pride, — of pride stung to the quick. That Penny’s husband, however worthless, should be made the scoff and butt of a public sale, should be bidden for a joke, was galling beyond expression to the honest soul. But if Jo had been incorrigible to his white master, he was exasperating to his black owner. Each Sunday morning invariably found the parson in the midst of his admiring flock, folding his clerical robe about him and rearing high his proud black head. But the week days told another story. Rising early to work, Penny would jog her lord, reminding him of certain things to be accomplished in her absence, — washing the dishes when he had breakfasted, feeding the chickens, mending the fire ; but again and again had she returned to find the dishes guiltless of water, the chickens clamorous, the fire dead. Again and again had her wrath risen, even to threatening him with the “sperrit” of the dead Marse Abe; but again and again had the turbulent waters been stilled by the logical soundness of Parson Jo. Jo the free was to Penny a more impressive personage than Jo the bond, and now and then she paused with a growing feeling somewhat akin to awe as she listened to the unanswerable arguments.

“ You see, Penny,” and the voice had lost its slavish whine, “I cain’t work, ’case dis body hain’t able ; de weakness er de flesh has b’ar me down sence I were a baby. I ’se ole ’fore my time, an’ withered in my youf; I ’se call’ ter talk, I is. ’Cordin’ ter er figger er de Scriptur’, I ’se er lily er de valley, I is ; you is King Sol’mun, an’ yer work is yer glory. You gotter work, Penny; but wid all yer glory, Sol’mun, you hain’t built like I is ! ”

Penny began to feel confused. Jo, somehow, was growing beyond her reach.

“ You see, Penny,” continued the confident voice, “ ’cordin’ ter de Book, what’s mine’s mine, and what’s yourn’s mine.”

“ You hain’t got nuffin’ but freedom, Jo,” ventured Penny.

“ I ’se got you, Penny,” said Jo rebukingly. “In de eyes er de worl’ you buyed me, and I b’longs ter you lack er dorg. By de witness er de Book I kin prube ter you dat you b’longs ter me lack er dorg.” Wider and wider Penny’s eyes opened. “Well! De Book, hit say let de ’omans keep dey mouf shet in de chu’ches. Den who gwine talk? De mens. Den who gwine boss ? De mens. De Book, hit say de ’omans gotter keep dey heads kivered wid handkerchers. Den who gwine take dey hats off an’ r’ar ’roun’ ? De mens. De Book, hit say dat er man stan’ in de house er de Lord an’ stribe ter please him; but de ’oman, Lord, she l’arn hit from ole Eve, but she do hit, she try ter please ’er ole man. Den ter who come de ’titlemints er de ’veriance er de saints ? Ter de mens. An’ las’ly, Sis’ Penny, de Book, hit say, let de wives be ’sarvient ter dey husban’s. I is yer husban’, you is my wife. ‘ ’Sarvient ’ mean sarvant er someun, er min’in’ er someun ; de sarvant, he b’long ter de marster, an’ de marster, he de boss : an’ dar, by de witness er de Book, you, Penny Wilkerson, am de slabe an’ de sarvant er me, Josephus Wilkerson, de marster, praise de Lord ! ”

Penny bowed her head in silence ; she was too stanch a follower of her faith to cavil at such unquestioned authority, and it was a waste of words to buffet against such logic. So she labored early and late, and Jo slept through the sunny noons, untrammeled, unmolested. Penny was conscientious to a degree worthy of a whiter skin, and, save an occasional burst of anger, the whistling of a safety valve, as it were, peace brooded over the thrifty cabin.

Lately Jo had seemed to improve ; not only was the butter gathered and the teakettle steaming, but once the savory odor of a chicken, done just to a turn, greeted Penny’s nostrils upon her arrival.

“ Sumpin gwine happin,” she muttered ; “ hit too good ter las’; ” but only a grunt of satisfaction met Jo’s ear as she busied herself with the teacups.

“ I ’se gwine make de house comferble fur you, Penny, long’s I libs,” murmured Jo, peering with half-closed eyes through a wreath of tobacco smoke.

“Hump!” responded Penny.

“ What’s yours’s mine ; what’s mine’s ourn, hain’t it, Penny ? ”

“ Hump ! ” and Penny cautiously moved to another part of the room, to evade the questioning.

The hush had preceded the storm, and the storm strengthened with its long threatening. Penny had kept her counsel, her woes were pent up in her own breast; she trusted her Bible, and she believed that she would live with Jo “ twel def claim one er ter’r, no matter what he do,” as she put it; but a great outburst came, which swept away her convictions, resolutions, and even her religious scruples, for the time, like mounds of sand.

In Jo’s congregation there was one Sister Chaney, a sister who looked with admiring eyes upon the dusky shepherd, who in turn lòoked with paternal solicitude upon the comely sister. Sister Chaney was Penny’s pet abhorrence.

“ Yas,” she said to Jo one notable Sunday, “ she mighty innercent an’ ’umble, mighty innercent; but w’en ever’body look’n’ at dey hime, she cuttin’ uv her eye ’roun’ ter see what she kin cotch ; w’en ever’body on dey knees er prayin’, she pearlin’ up uv her Sunday fixin’s.”

“ What was you doin’, Penny ? ” queried Jo.

“I was er eotchin’ de Fair-I-See an’ de hypocrick in de markit places, I was ! ” snapped Penny. “ Yas,” she continued, warming to her subject, “ she think you hain’t got nuffin’ eat fur Sunday, so she hafter hike ’roun’ an’ bake er ole po’ cake fur Brer Jo. Sont hit by her own han’s and wid her own love, did she ? Think you hain’t got de bestes’ cook in de country right in dis kitchen here, now, do she ? She gotter scrope her ole bar’l an’ dreen her ole jug fur you, is she ? I lay if I ebber cotch de wroppin’s uv her leetles’ finger in my house ergin, Jo Wilkerson, I break ever’ bone in her body, — dar, now ! ” and over her head Penny raised the cake of discord, to hurl it with a crash of crockery into the midst of the squealing pigs.

Softly on tiptoe, with a sanctimonious wave of the hand, Jo retired. It was an unseemly scene for Sunday ; besides, the domestic waters were just now too rough for logical sailing.

It was Monday night, and Penny had worked late into the dusk, but had stopped to buy a gorgeous handkerchief for Jo. She had been “ des er leetle rough,” and he was her “ ole man twel def do come, arter all.” Though painfully red and yellow, it was a flag of truce, an offering of peace.

Cheerily gleamed the lamp in the window of the cabin, and from the tiny chimney curled the hospitable smoke, reminding her pleasantly of the heat and light within. “ Hit mought be worser, — hit mought be heap worser,”and Penny smiled softly to herself. There were voices within, — pleasant, confidential voices. “ Mus’ be comp’ny. I des peep fru de chink an’ see.”

Leaning back luxuriously, with his feet on the table and his pipe in his mouth, sat Parson Jo, the remnants of a dainty supper before him.

“ Yas,” said a voice, whose possessor seemed to be busied about the room, “ dey do say dat hit scan’lous how she treat you.” Penny could never mistake that voice.

“ Yas,” drawled Jo, in placid contentment.

“ Makin’ you, er ’zorter an’ er ’spounder, wash de dishes, peel de ’taters, lack er whinin’ nigger’s nigger,” continued the voice.

“ Dat de truf,” assented Jo.

“ Dey do say dat she dat bardacious stingy dat she lock up all de vittles w’en she go out in de mornin’, — lock ’em, hide ’em fum her husban’ ! ”

“ Dat so, sister,” said Jo.

“ Po’, po’ brudder ! ” moaned the voice. “ Dat she lock up all de jam an’ her ole blackberry cord’al; dat she mighty givey ter comp’ny, but she save hit des fur show.”

“ De Gord’s truf, Sis’ Chaney.”

“ Dey do say as how she buyed you ter own er nigger, des ter lady in de s’ci’ty plumb ober we all hones’ Christuns.”

“ Des so, Sis’ Chaney.”

Penny’s breath came fast and faster as she laid her ear closer to the chink.

“ I don’ know, Brer Wilkerson, I don’ know nuffin’, an’ min’ me, I hain’t sayin’ nuffin’, but dey do say dat she bargains ” — here Sis’ Chaney came and laid her hand upon Jo’s shoulder— “ dat she bargains wid de debbil, dat she bargains in de grabeyard, dat she ’s selled her soul an’ body, dat she hoodoos in de nighttime ! ”

“ De Gord’s truf, Sis’ Chaney. Hab mercy on her, ’case I cotch her ! ”

“ My po’, po’ brudder ! ”

Penny waited to hear no more ; hot, breathless, eager, too furious for words, too angry for expostulation, on through the darkness she sped, until she sank exhausted upon the doorstep of Colonel Jones’s dwelling.

“ I wants ter see Marse Bev’ly, quick ! ” she gasped to the astonished servant.

Brokenly, incoherently, the story was poured into the ear of Ole Miss’s only son. Now that it was told, Penny broke down.

“ Nebber, nebber, Marse Bev’ly, has I had sech er tu’n sence Ole Miss died an’ sot me free, — nebber, nebber, nebber! Er ’basin’ er me in my own house, wha’ Ole Miss lef’ me; er eatin’ er my own salt! Ain’ no dorg gwine do dat; he lick de han’ while hit feed ’im. Er ’zorter an’ er ’spounder des er clinchin’ er dem ole viper tales, des er waggin’ uv he ole head aigewise lack er worfless ole blackbird ! Er ’cusin’ me er hoodoo an’ er snortin’ in de grabeyard ! I lay I l’arn ’im how ter preach ’sarvience ! ” Penny paused for breath. “ Now, Marse Bev’ly, I ’se po’, an’ I ’se brack, an’ I ’se ignunt, but I ’se free, an’ free I ’se gwine stay. Marse Bev’ly, what I gwine do ? ”

“ Well, Penny,” said the colonel after a moment’s silence, “ I am sorry that, after buying Jo, you and he cannot agree. Suppose you make one more earnest effort ; heap coals of fire on his head, as it were.”

“ I cain’t, Marse Bev’ly ; hit’s mo’n I kin b’ar.”

“ It is a serious thing, Penny, this human intervention between those whom God has joined together. You believe that in marriage he shows the work of his hand, — do you, Penny ? ”

“ Yas,” hesitated Penny, “ fur white folks, sometimes ; but de niggers, dey hustles mos’ly fur deyse’fs, — dey ain’ ast ’im.”

“ How about you and Jo, Penny ?”

“ De debbil, he crope in, sho’, an’ tie dat knot, Marse Bev’ly.”

“ Then you are fixed in your determination ? ”

“ I cain’t b’ar no mo’, Marse Bev’ly. I gwine git shet er Jo. Now what I gwine do ? ”

“ When I have an unruly slave, you know that I will not have him abused. Do you know what I do with him, Penny ?”

“You sells him,” whispered Penny, afraid of the sound of her own voice.

“ You bought and paid for Jo, as I buy and pay for my slaves ; and as Jo is unruly and worthless to you, I would sell him.”

Gradually the enormity of the thing dawned upon her. Sell Jo, really and truly, — no threat, but a stern reality ! Then her own injured feelings and slandered personality urged for vengeance.

“ Marse Bev’ly,” she said solemnly, raising herself with the weight of readjusted dignity, “ I stribed ter sabe er lam’, but I fin’s dat I has nussed er sarpint. I gwine ter sell Jo fur de Sabin’ er my soul.”

“ Very well, Penny,” said Colonel Jones. “ I think that is the most sensible view to take of it; a woman of your worth and character can ill afford to waste her life upon the vagaries of a vagabond. There will be a trader from New Orleans in my office in the morning, at half past nine. Meet me promptly there with Jo. Good-night, Penny.”

“ Thankee, Marse Bev’ly. Goodnight.”

As the door closed she paused to recollect her swimming senses, then seated herself upon the steps of her former mistress’s home. She would not ask a lodging in the house, for Marse Bev’ly would think her foolish. She would not seek the dwelling of a friend, for the kindly but thoughtless head would wag unmercifully. She could not go home to Jo and act a lie, — no, no ! She could not lay her head beside his, draw the old lone-star quilt about them, and listen to the breathing of the traitor in the dark. One, then, would be as wicked as the other. No : she would stay where she was; she would sit on the step and wait until daylight.

She heard the familiar voices of the night. She counted the blinking stars, and wondered how near Ole Miss lived to them now ; it was a long way off. She wondered if Ole Miss knew how she suffered to-night, — Ole Miss, who left her freedom and the cabin when she died. Ole Miss loved her, if she was black ; she wondered if any one else would ever love her, — and the first tears since Penny’s trouble dropped upon her hands. She wondered if freedom was a good thing, after all; all her trouble came with freedom, all her worry. Freedom was sweet, but trouble was bitter. Maybe Marse Bev’ly would buy her and her trouble back again ; would buy her, and leave the trouble ; would buy the trouble, and leave her ; and, wearied out, she leaned her head upon her hands and slept.

The dawning found her at her own door ; softly she lifted the latch. Sunken deep in the feathers snored the faithless Jo. Penny folded back the covers from the woolly head, and looked long and earnestly into his face. “ Twel def do us part,” she whispered. “ He don’ look lack he ’d do dat, he don’, po’ ole nigger! Look des lack leetle dead Jo, while he sleepin’, de onlies’ baby boy dat were ourn.” There was a strange dimness in Penny’s eyes. “ But I seed her wid my own eyes, an’ I beared him wid my own years, an’ may de good Gord furgib me if I ’se gwine do er sin ! I would n’ done hit ef be had n’ lied ter her, — lied ’bout me ! I’d er wuked fur ’im, I’d er slabed fur ’im, but I cain’t stan’ dat. But maybe hit’ll wuk right bimeby ; maybe de Lord ’ll fix hit, somewhar, somehow, ’fore we dies, an’ dey ’ll bury Penny an’ Jo sider one nur’r, unner de ole wilier, bimeby, maybe. Goodby, Jo, good-by.” Gently she turned, looking back as she paused in the doorway. “ She tuk mighty good keer ter wash ever’thing an’ put hit in hits place,” said Penny, looking over the immaculate kitchen with hardening face ; “ but. Lord ! she could u’ fool me. I ’d er knowed somebody done been here ’dout seein’ uv ’em.”

Silently the fire was laid, and breakfast prepared without the accustomed song, — a breakfast as dainty as Penny’s finances could afford. In the old familiar way she went to waken Jo. After much calling and shaking, a guttural sound issued from beneath the quilt. “ Jo, Marse Bev’ly want you at de office at half pas’ nine. Get up and eat yer breffus.”

“ Dat you, Penny ? ” and Jo pulled himself together, with a prodigious yawn.

“ Dat me,” said Penny grimly.

“ Whar you stay las’ night, Penny ? Why n’t you come home ? ” Penny’s lip trembled, but her face grew harder. “ Whar you stay las’ night ? ” repeated Jo, now thoroughly awake and half sitting up in the bed. “ I l’arn you how ter go skylarkin’ ’roun’, er stayin’ ’roun’ er nights an’ er comin’ home pouty ! ” No answer. “ Here me er waitin’ an’ er waitin’ an’ er waitin’, ain’ got no supper, ner tea, ner nuffin’; mighty fine way ter ’sarve de teachin’s er de ’postles ! ”

Penny’s eyes flashed and her whole being quivered. “ Jo, you lie, you knows you lie ! If you will cote Scriptur’, dar’s been ministerin’ angils er debbils er varmints erbout dis house, an’ dey lef’ er cuss in hit. Git ready ter go ter Marse Bev’ly’s ! ”

Jo cowered, slipped humbly into his clothes, and made his meal in silence.

“ Yes,” Colonel Jones was saying, “ my mother set his wife free, and when Wilkerson put him up the wife bought him. He has proved too much for her ; but he is a likely negro, and properly managed will be found available. I think that you can buy him for five hundred dollars, and he ’s worth it.”

“ I’ve seen him ; I’m willing,” said a rough-looking individual, running his hand through his hair. “ But it’s a new ’sper’ence to me. I ain’ never bought a nigger from a nigger before.”

“ That’s all right. I ’ll see to that.”

“ Penny,” called the colonel, as the woman entered followed by the crestfallen Jo, “ this is Mr. Blake from New Orleans, and he is willing to pay five hundred dollars for Jo.”

“ Yas, sar,” said Penny, pulling at the corner of her apron, “ but dat hain’t right, Marse Bev’ly. I did n’ gib but er hundud fur ’im.”

“ Why is n’t it right ? ”

“ I don’ wanter make nuffin’ off’n him, Marse Bev’ly.”

“ Business is business. Mr. Blake will give you five hundred ; will you take it ? ”

“ Yas, sar,” whispered Penny.

Silently, stolidly, Jo watched the bills as they were counted one by one into Penny’s shaking hand. He had been tried, condemned, and from his sentence there was no appeal. She had really and truly done it at last, — she !

Folding away her bills, Penny still lingered.

“ Good-by, Jo,” she ventured.

Jo vouchsafed no answer.

“ Good-by, Jo.”

Motionless he stood, like a piece of ill-wrought bronze. Harder and harder grew the look on Penny’s face.

“ I ’se got you in my pocket, Jo, and may you do me mo’ good dar dan you ebber has out’n hit ! ” Turning, she neither paused nor wavered until she reached her little cabin. There, waiting at the gate, were numerous gossipers. Stumbling blindly past them, she shut the door behind her, and the unused key grated harshly in its socket.

III.

The sun bleached the clothes upon Penny’s lines with impartial fervor; the sadirons turned upon their racks the polished faces of usefulness. But the mellow rhythmic song that was wont to rise from the little cabin was silent. The sassafras stick ploughed deep and often into the pot of boiling soap, which was never spoiled now by interruption ; but Penny was not happy. She sought no counselors or confidants, and, always unpopular with her color, she became an object of special avoidance.

Late into the night burned the candle in the cabin, and now and again were visits to Marse Bev’ly, followed by anonymous gifts from Penny in charitable directions. A new pulpit, gaudy in fresh paint, glared upon the worshipers in Ebenezer Chapel; then appeared upon it a gorgeous Bible bound in red, the cover emblazoned with patriarchal scenes in painful blues and greens. Upon its first appearance there was a flutter of approbation ; then bended heads and whispered explanations : “ Penny done dat! ” “ Hain’t gwine let ’er right han’ know what ’er lef’ han’ do ! ” “ She buyin’ uv peace,” said Ben-é, a black, withered little negress, rocking to and fro, as her hand instinctively sought the buckeye and rabbit foot in her pocket.

Poor Penny ! She sat musing on her doorstep, watching the last rays of the setting sun. The week was done ; tomorrow would be Sunday again. “ Hain’t no use ! ” she sighed. “ I ’se buyed an’ I ’se prayed, an’ I ’se prayed an’ I ’se buyed, but hit hain’t fotcli me no res’.” Wearily she leaned her head upon her hand.

Afar down the lane a black speck broke the still sunlight, like a pebble cast into placid waters ; a full, fresh voice met the silence with song : —

Nearer and nearer came the song and the figure.

At the corner of the fence the song was hushed.

“ Um ! ole Penny Wilkerson ! ” grunted Sis Chaney. “ She selled de ole man, an’ now she taken wid de debbil. Fool man, fool ’oman — um ! ” With a contemptuous swish of her skirts the blot upon Penny’s sunlight had vanished.

“ De ve’y spit an’ image uv my miz’ry,” whispered Penny. “Yas, Lord, dar’s er ’oman at de bottom uv ever’thin’ sneakin’ an’ mean ; dar’s er ’oman at de bottom uv de bottomless pit, wha’ de Scriptur’ tell erbout, sho’ dar be, Lord ! Judas, he were er man, an’ he taken lie Lord an’ sells ’im fur de pieces er silber ; den he fling down de money an’ go hang hese’f. Jo, he know de Scriptur’, an’ he say de husban’ am lord er de wife; an’ I taken my lord, which were Jo, an’ I buys ’im,den I sells ’im fur fo’ hundud mo’n I guv fur ’im ! I ’se worser ’an Judas, I ’se badder ’n Peter wha’ ’nied free times. Judas, he hang hese’f. Peter, he cry. Oh ! my Lord, what I gwine do ? ” The anguished form rocked to and fro. “ I ’se buyed an’ selled what de Lord done sont me. Oh ! my Lord, what I gwine do ? I ’se cried twel de water won’ drap no mo’. De hants, dey pester in de dead er de nighttime, an’ de sperrits, dey cry in de wringin’ er my in’ards. Oh ! my Lord, what I gwine do?” Gradually the emotional storm became calmer, and the rhythmic rocking more gentle.

Softer and softer, the plaint became a whisper : —

The darkness fell, and Penny arose with a sense of lifted sorrow.

That night Marse Bev’ly received a final visit.

“ Good - by, Marse Bev’ly. I gwine s’arch twel I fin’ him. Ef I don’t, ef I fails, ole Hardeman hain’t gwine know me no mo’; de hants won’ let me. Ef I don’t, teck de home, Marse Bev’ly, de cabin dat Ole Miss guv me ; let er betterer ’oman warm hit dan I has been. Ef I ain’ come back in er year come Chris’mus, I hain’t ebber come. I hain’t leavin’ nuffin’ behin’ ’cep’in’ you an’ yourn. Good-by, Marse Bev’ly.”

The Sabbath morning beamed upon the just and the unjust in Ebenezer Chapel; the aggressive pulpit still glared upon the expectant congregation ; Brer Jonah took his text from the great red book, upside down, in the old familiar way ; but there was no Penny.

The little window lights were full of darkness ; through the night the unlatched doors moaned and creaked in the wanton wind. No more the homely chimney sent up its line of blue. The tiny gate, slipping its moorings, dropped away ; the garden gloried in a thistle growth, kissed here and there by morning-glories, vagrants, that laughed upon the sun and wound their idle arms around the prickly leaves. Old Brownie bravely laid her snowy eggs upon the unused hearth ; then tucked a yellow brood beneath her wing. Old Tabby nursed with rare maternal pride a brand-new litter in the softest feather bed. The weeks slipped into months, the months became years. Marse Bev’ly swore the house . was Penny’s still, but Penny never came.

IV.

The summer sun of 1878 beat upon the busy mart of Memphis. Peace was within her borders, and the wheels of commerce, turned by the masses of hurrying, perspiring humanity, whirled hopefully. An atom of the seething mass, but part and parcel of the growing city, whither she had drifted at the closing of the war, Penny labored in the little cabin in Fort Pickering, and pondered many things. The trip to New Orleans had been futile ; she did not find Jo. When freedom came her hope beat high,—surely she should find him now ; and rumor after rumor she had chased from city to city, until, weary in heart and broken in health, she at last gave up the search. “ De Lord know bes’,” she whispered to herself ; “ someway er somehow, he gwine fix hit.” She did not write to Marse Bev’ly; she had never learned to write, and she had a wholesome contempt for the “ Linkum free niggers,” so she would not trust her affairs to a more fortunate friend. Now and again the longing of homesickness almost overcame her. “ I cain’t, oh, I cain’t!” she moaned; then faster and faster flew the brown hands at their work, and louder and louder rose the doleful song to drown her sorrow. Aloof she walked amongst her fellows ; evening found her sitting with her gorgeous flowers, uncomforted, unsought.

“ Yas, Sis’ Wilkerson,” said Brer Snowberry, the exhorter, “ ’cordin’ ter de Seriptur’, you gotter herd wid de flock ; ef de sheeps don’ herd, how de shepherd gwine know dey blate ? Here you gwine on, year in an’ year out, an’ nebber has you darkined de door er de sanctumerry. Sis’ Wilkerson,” and Brer Snowberry lowered his voice solemnly, “ dar’s sumpen on yer min’, an’ hit ain’ let you res’ ; dar’s er sin dat er gnawin’ at yer witles, lack de fox dat de fool boy done toted. Hit er gnawin’ in de daytime an’ er cryin’ in de darkness. Sis’ Wilkerson, er ’fession ’fore de chu’ch am de onlies’ way ter peace ; hit ’ll parge de sinlies’ soul an’ hit ’ll puerfy de body. Make yer peace, Sis’ Wilkerson ! ”

“ Parson Snowberry,” said Penny, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous light, “ I makes my peace wid Gord, an’ I don’ wan’ nobody pryin’ inter hit, nuther. I has heared ernough ter keep my years opin, an’ I bids you good-day. You kin lead er hoss ter water, but you cain’t make ’im drink, an’ I ’se gwine ter make hit hot fur somebody, ef dey comes pesterin’ er me ergin. I ’beys de laws er man ’cordin’ ter dose laws, an’ de laws er Gord ’cordin’ ter my own cornshuns, an’ ’t ain’ nobody’s business ef I ’se er sheep er er goat.”

Reluctantly the parson took his departure. “ Dar’s er hoodoo wukin’ somewhar,” he muttered, “ an’ dis am er peck er meal dat gwine be powerful hard ter sif’ ; ” and down the fennel common shambled the clerical ambassador.

Penny’s tall sunflowers stifled in the heat. On the Arkansas side the spent sun trembled like a red unstable thing, then dropped like a ball into the muddy waters that lay beyond. Tears fell upon Penny’s withered cheeks. “ Youf all gone, an’ de sin er de youf des er frettin’ en de ole age ! ” She had made a resolve: she would go home to die, — go home to-morrow.

What was so beautiful as that August dawn ! Is nature’s heart so dead to human needs — the human, fashioned in the form of God — that she can laugh before impending holocausts, and give no sign or warning of the coming doom ? To-day Penny would go home ! Without were excited voices, — what were they to her? The negroes of that locality were always excited. To-day she would go home. How sweet to tread the earth of Hardeman again, to teach their way of life to tangled morning-glory vines, to hear the creaking of the old well rope in the worn wheel, to drain the last drop from the crumple-handled gourd ! Today she would go home, — go home to die. What was it they were saying ? Penny unbarred her door and listened. There were rolling eyes and lolling tongues, the joy of an appalling theme.

“ Dar’s five cases er yaller fever on Front Street, — Hightallions ; genuwine yaller fever ! ” “ Who sesso ? ” “ Doctors sesso! Bode er Helf gwine ’clar’ hit. White folks, skeered plumb ter fits, gwine light out fum here, — ain’ wait fur nuffin’! ” “ Wha’ you gwine do ? ” “ Gwine light out too ! ” “ Wha’ you gwine do ? ” “ Yahw ! yahw ! gwine stay yere an’ draw rations lack seb’nty — free — white folks fire, nigger shoecake, yahw ! Yaller fever hain’t gwine cotch er nigger brack es I is ! ” “ Gwine coteh yaller nigger sho’ ! ”

Yellow fever ! Sadly Penny carried home the baskets of rough-dry clothes, lending here and there a helping hand to the hurried preparations; she would not go home to-day, — she would wait.

All day long the restless tide swept out from the fated city. Just one day, and at midnight the depots were lined with ashen-faced, frightened humanity. Millionaire and pauper, butcher and banker, men of differing complexions and nationalities, on a common level, united for once, with one mainspring of action. Boats, trains, drays, wagons, oxcarts, — everything affording locomotion was pressed into the fleeing caravan. The epidemic was declared, and again the human stream poured out, every fresh bulletin producing another exodus. Penny stood in her tiny doorway and watched the loaded trains go by. Over the unhappy city the arm of pestilence was stretched ; no quarter was now exempt; all the world would soon be quarantined against her. Should Penny go ?

The health officers were coaxing, cajoling, driving, forcing, and the last detachment for the camp had been formed ; here was the last opportunity.

“ Good-by, Penny Wilkerson ! ” shouted a spiteful voice down the road, — “ good-by, e£ you stays, an’ gib our respec’s ter ole Sat’n w’en you sees ’im ! ”

“ Better come erlong, gal,” said a quavering old voice. “ De cuss er Gord am res’in’ on dis here lan’. Hit gwine ter git mighty lonesome ’fore hit w’ar hitse’f out. Better come erlong, gal.”

Parson Snowberry walked slowly by, dignified still, but fearing to breathe lest he should draw in the poison of infection : folded in a broad swathe and tied beneath his nose was a red and yellow bandanna; slung over his shoulder by the crook of a hickory stick, reposing in a blue cotton pillowslip lay the wealth and all the worldly goods of Parson Snowberry. At Penny’s gate he paused. “ Good-by, Sis’ Wilkerson ! ” and the voice labored painfully beneath the handkerchief. “You has sumpen on yer min’, an’ you cain’t git yer peace. Dar’s res’ en de grabe fur de weary. Hab mercy on yer soul! ”

“ Um ! ” grunted Penny. “Mighty fine ’postle dat am ! Feared ter trus’ Gord fur ’nough ter breave de a’r, — hatter strain’ hit fru er handkereher. Um!

“ Niggers all gwine ter nigger’s heaben, — all play, no wuk. Dey kin go. Penny hain’t gwine be beholden ter none uv ’em, not even de guv’mint, while her ole head’s hot, nary time. Um! Lack ter see ’em dribe me inter timesarvin’ lack dat, sho’ ! ” Should she go? “ Uv my own free heart an’ body, min’ you ! ” she said softly to herself, after a while. “ Die ’dout fin’in’ Jo, die ’dout furgibness, wid de Judas sin on de soul ! But I sayed I wanter die, I sayed I gwine home ter die. I did n’ s’arch fur hit, but de yaller fever, hit come an’ seeked me out, hit fin’ me whar I stays, — yas, an’ I gwine stay, praise de Lord ! ”

A whistle of the engine, a puff of steam, a waving of hats and aprons to the lone figure in the doorway, and the motley freight of humanity was gone.

There had been a call for nurses : the Howards and Citizens’ Relief were sadly overtaxed for want of efficient aid. Some came from the South, some from the North, noble souls ; but the force was just now inadequate to face the visage of the Black Death.

Penny sat as of yore upon her steps and pondered. “ I’d druther nuss an’ keer fur my own color, nuss ’em ’dout pay, des fur de lub er Gord, des fur de pargin’ er de spot on de soul. But dey’s dat feared dey won’ let me come er nigh ’em, po’ fool niggers ! ’Case I got er sorrer an’ keep my mouf shet ’bout hit, dey think I got er hoodoo, an’ dey won’ let me tech ’em. I ’se gwine go fur er white folks’ nuss. I ’se gwdne fur ter gib dis sinful heart er call ter die.”

In checked kerchief and snowy apron Penny stood before the superintendent of the nurses. “Had n’t you better go into cam]>, auntie ? ” asked Mr. Johnson kindly. “ Don’t you think you are rather old for a fever nurse ? ”

“ I hain’t ole, sar,” said Penny respectfully, opening her eyes wide upon him. “ De folks dat’s got youf mos’ leas’ways got keerliss ways too, sar. You hain’t got no call but ter try me, sar.”

“You are trustworthy, but are you strong ? ”

“ I ’se b’ar’d an’ boosted by de wing uv er mighty hope, sar,” replied Penny solemnly.

So Penny watched and waited, wrestled face to face with death ; now closing jaundiced eyes upon the world forever, breathing silently her own unrounded prayer upon the departing soul; now nursing an emaciated form into the fond security of a grateful convalescence.

Weary, but with unsleeping eyes, she wore the long night watches into dawn. She heard the wagon rattle on the cobbled street; she bent to hear her sleeping patient breathe. She heard the wagon stop; a pause, a smothered sob, then on upon its ghostly midnight rounds. Where, where was Jo ? All bitterness was gone ; to - night a longing moved her heart with the old youthful love. When they should come for her, — if they should come, — if he could be there, give that cry for her, it would be sweet to die. A tear that Penny would have scorned to own dropped upon her hand. Her patient stirred. She laid her hand upon his brow; so young, so scarred by sin, but he was yet some mother’s boy, some woman’s heart clung to him. The brown face softened, and she thought of liers and Jo’s, their only one, so still tonight, asleep in Hardeman.

“ Penny! ” and no ungentle hand pushed aside the proffered cup. “ It’s no use — I’m going in the morning.”

“All right, Marse Will,” said Penny cheerily, still holding the cup, “ but won’ you take ole Penny ’long too, ter see yer mar ? ”

“ I don’t mean that, Penny. I mean I’m going to — I mean it’s coming,” he whispered, with a shudder. “ Take the physic away — don’t call — don’t let anybody come — it’s coming quickly ! Penny,” he cried, “ pray ! ”

Penny trembled from head to foot. “ You hain’t gwine die, Marse Will,” she said soothingly. “ I git er preacher yere ter you ter-morrer, — sho’ I will.”

“ Pray ! ” repeated the voice.

“ I ’se only er po’ ole nigger,” she sobbed. “ I hain’t fitten ter ’proach de th’one. Pray de baby pra’r yer mudder l’arned you, Marse Will.”

“ I can’t,” he moaned. “ I have been wicked, I have forgotten God — I am dying — pray for me, Penny ! ”

Reverently the old negress knelt beside the bed. “ O Gord, my Lord ! ” she sobbed, “ lis’en ter de po’ ole nigger prayin’ fur Marse Will! De nigger hain’t fitten, but Marse Will cain’t pray fur hese’f! Furgit, O Gord, dat he stray off wid de goats, dat he ain’ hear de call er de Shepherd, dat de hin er de Gorspil ain’ nustle ’im unner her wing! Take ’im des lack he am, wid ’pentance at de las’ ! Er defbed ’pentance, Lord, worf mo’n no ’pentance ’t all. O my Gord, make ’im lack er leetle baby ! ”

“ Amen,” came the whispered response.

“ Er leetle baby dat gwine sleep in ’is mudder’s arms, an’ gwine trus’ ’em while he sleeps! Hit on’y er po’ ole nigger dat prornus, but he gwine trus’, Lord ! ”

Softly came the words, “ I trust.”

“ Take ’im, Lord, an’ tell ’im ’bout hit w’en he come, lack de lovin’ mudder whisper en de leetle baby’s year. Amen ! ”

“ Amen ! ”

Gently the dawn light sifted through the shutters. The dawn of life had sought the chamber first. The smile of peace lay on the wan young face. The thin white fingers, clasping close a poor brown palm, had loosed their hold : that hand had led from darkness into light.

“ I des go home an’ pearten up er leetle,” Penny said to the day nurse, — “ I feels so cu’is and shaky, — but I be back bimeby. Po’ lam’ ! ” she sighed, and the door closed behind her.

Through the whole day Penny sat alone in her cabin, — the first day home in many weeks.

“ I do feel mighty cu’is,” she mused. “ Dar’s er singin’ in my years, an’ er sneakin’ feelin’ in my back, lack I done hilt er col’ key ter hit. I won’er whar Jo be now? Po’ Jo, my Jo. Won’er what make me feel so cu’is ? Hit mought be de def an’ de pra’r. Ain’ nuffin’ mobe me lack dat sence I been er nussin’. Hit been er age sence I put up er pra’r erfore, but I feeled what I pray, — de Lord, he know hit. Po’ lam’, he know wliar leetle Jo be, now. I won’er whar my Jo gwine sleep dis night? Ef I des could git ’im back, my Lord! Hit gittin’ plumb dark. I allus putten de lamp en de winder w’en hit dark, ’case hit make hit look sorter cheersome outside. Um ! um ! been erway so long I mos’ furgit hit.” Wearily she rose. “ Do feel mighty cu’is. Don’ think I go back ter-night. I ain’ got nobody ter sen’. I des sleep here twel mornin’.” Scrupulously neat, she carefully polished the little chimney with the corner of her apron, then placed her beacon close against the pane.

“ Be dar yerly en de mornin’,” she whispered. “ I des tired,” and with unsteady steps she sought her bed.

“ Look ! dar ’s light in Miss Wilkerson’s winder, — she done come home,” said one ration-drawing neighbor to another.

“ I des bardaciously knowed she would ; she won’t do good fur lub er money,” said the other. “ Lis’n ! ” Floating from the little cabin came a song : —

“ Mighty line time ter come singin’ ’roun’ w’en folks am des er dyin’ lack sheep ! ” said lean Pete, who, by reason of a little prevarication, drew double rations. “ Better be yearnin’ hones’ bread. Um ! ”

A figure paused without the cabin door. “I hates ter pester folks,” he soliloquized, — “ at nighttime, too, — but I ’se gotter sleep some’rs, an’ dar’s er light in dar. Singin’, too ! Ain’ no fever in dar, — I kin resk dat.” Softly he raised his stick and knocked. Again the voice rose with quivering intensity:

“ Singin’ mighty loud. Moughtn’ heared me. Des knock ergin.” The voice died into a sigh, —

“ I des bardaciously walk in, den ’polygize, — kin do hit han’some - lack. I ain’ furgit.” Boldly lifting the latch, the ragged figure stood upon the threshold. “ ’Scuse me, lady,” he said, with an old-time bow. “I”— A pause; his eyes rolled wildly. There upon the mantel sat the old blue china hen ; there was the old bow basket in its place by the hearth, — he would know it among a thousand.

“ Whar is I ? Whar be I ? I ’se hoodooed ! Oh, Lord. I ’se done gone plumb daf ! ”

“ Dese bones ’ll rise” — moaned the woman, tossing to and fro upon the bed.

“ My Gord ! Penny ! ” he cried.

“ How you know, my Lord ? ” sobbed the voice.

“ Penny! it’s Penny ! — my Penny ! Jo done come back ergin,” he whispered, laying a hand upon the burning brow.

Eagerly she peered into his face with the hard, fixed gaze of delirium, then sank upon the pillow with the same heartrending wail.

“ Gord done sont me here dis night, an’ here I gwine stay, wid de fever er ’douten de fever. I ’se hern an she’s mine twel def us do part.” Jo dropped upon his knees, laid his face upon Penny’s burning palm, and wept.

Bravely, heroically, he strove for Penny at the jaws of death ; for never was there more faithful slave or gentler ministering spirit than was Jo.

Gradually the light of recognition beamed within the old wife’s eyes. Then joy was horn in the midst of pestilence, and smiles in spite of sorrow; stories were told without reserve, and honest pardons granted.

“ Yas, Jo,” and Penny fondly leaned her thin cheek upon her spouse’s grizzled head, “ I ’se been weighted in de balance an’ done been foun’ wantin’. Dey foun’ me penny wise an’ plumb foolish, but de Lord, he done been good ter me.”

Virginia Frazer Boyle.