water from the
spring. He was perfectly sober and he knew it was nearly noon. Then
he heard the person say: "I guess you are all right now, Marse Ned,
an' I'm thinkin' it's the last drink you'll ever take outen that
jug."

His astonishment in recognizing that the voice was the voice of Mammy
Maria did not keep him from looking up regretfully at sight of the
precious broken jug and the strong odor of whiskey pervading the air.

How delightful the odor was!

He sat up amazed, blinking stupidly.

"Aunt Maria--in heaven's name--where?"

"Never mind, Marse Ned--jes' you git into the buggy now an' I'll take
you home. You see, I've moved everything this mohnin' whilst you
slept. The last load is gone to our new home."

"What?" he exclaimed--"where?" He looked around--the home was empty.

"I thort it time to wake you up," she went on, "an' besides I wanter
talk to you about my babies.

"You'll onderstan' all that when you see the home I've bought for
us"--she said simply. "We're gwine to it now. Git in the buggy"--and
she helped him to arise.

Then Edward Conway guessed, and he was silent, and without a word the
old woman drove him out of the dilapidated gate of Millwood toward
the town.

"Mammy," he began as if he were a boy again--"Mammy," and then he
burst into tears.

"Don't cry, chile," said the old woman--"it's all behind us now. I
saved the money years ago, when we all wus flush--an' you gave me so
much when you had an' wus so kind to me, Marse Ned. I saved it. We're
gwine to reform now an' quit drinkin'. We'se gwine to remove to
another spot in the garden of the Lord, but the Lord is gwine with us
an' He is the tower of strength--the tower of strength to them that
trust Him--Amen. But I must have my babies--that's part of the
barg'in. No mill for them--oh, Marse Ned, to think that whilst I was
off, fixin' our home so nice to s'prize you all--wuckin' my fingers
off to git the home ready--you let them devils get my babies! Git up
heah"--and she rapped the horse down the back with the lines. "Hurry
up--I'm gwine after 'em es soon es I git home."

Conway could only bow his head and weep.

It was nearly noon when a large coal-black woman, her head tied up
with an immaculately white handkerchief, with a white apron to match
over her new calico gown, walked into the mill door. She passed
through Kingsley's office, without giving him the courtesy of a nod,
holding her head high and looking straight before her