I, leaning there a barefooted market
boy, was to have my part.

An aged negress, in a red bandanna turban, with a pipe in her mouth,
stopped to rest in the shadow of the sycamore, placing her basket, full
of onions and tomatoes, on the pavement beside my empty one.

"Do you know who lives in that grey house, Mammy?" I asked.

Twisting the stem of her pipe to the corner of her mouth, she sat
nodding at me, while the wind fluttered the wisps of grizzled hair
escaping from beneath her red and yellow head-dress.

"Go 'way, chile, whar you done come f'om?" she demanded suspiciously.
"Ain't you ever hyern er Marse Bland? He riz me."

I shook my head, sufficiently humbled by my plebeian ignorance.

"Are the two old ladies his daughters?"

"Wat you call Miss Mitty en Miss Matoaca ole fur? Dey ain' ole," she
responded indignantly. "I use'n ter b'long ter Marse Bland befo' de war,
en I kin recollect de day dat e'vy one er dem wuz born. Dey's all daid
now cep'n Miss Mitty en Miss Matoaca, en Marse Bland he's daid, too."

"Then who is the little girl? Where did she come from?"

There was a dandelion blooming in a tuft of grass between the loosened
bricks of the pavement, and I imprisoned it in my bare toes while I
waited impatiently for her answer.

"Dat's Miss Sary's chile. She ran away wid Marse Harry Mickleborough, in
Marse Bland's lifetime, en he 'ouldn't lay eyes on her f'om dat day ter
his deaf. Miss Mitty en Miss Matoaca dey ain' ole, but Miss Sary she
want nuttin' mo'n a chile w'en she went off."

"But why did her father never see her again?"

"Dat was 'long er Marse Mickleborough, boy, but I ain' gwine inter de
ens en de outs er dat. Hit mought er been becaze er Marse
Mickleborough's fiddle, but I ain' sayin' dat hit wuz er dat hit wuzn't.
Dar's some folks dat cyarn' stan' de squeak er a fiddle, en he sutney
did fiddle a mont'ous lot. He usen ter beat Miss Sary, too, I hyern
tell, jes es you mought hev prognosticate er a fiddlin' man; but she
ain' never come home twel atter her pa wuz daid en buried over yonder in
Hollywood. Den w'en de will wuz read Marse Bland had lef ev'y las' cent
clean away f'om her en de chile. Atter Miss Mitty en Miss Matoaca die de
hull pa'cel er hit's er gwine ter some no 'count hospital whar dey take
live folks ter pieces en den put 'em tergedder agin."

"You mean the little girl won't get a blessed cent?" I asked, and my
toes pinched the head of the dandelion until it dropped from