he $200 with her, carefully pinned and double pinned into a pocket
in her purple alpaca petticoat. She did not want to take it home. Jeems
had submitted this morning, but with mutterings, and a second time there
might be trouble. The savings were indeed hers, but a rebellious husband
in high finance is an embarrassment. Deeply Aunt Basha considered, and
memory whispered something about a bank. Young marse was going to the
bank with her to give her money to Uncle Sam. She had just passed a
bank. Why could she not go alone? Somebody certainly would tell her what
to do. Possibly Uncle Sam was there himself--for Aunt Basha's conception
of our national myth was half mystical, half practical--as a child with
Santa Claus. In any case banks were responsible places, and somebody
would look after her. She crossed to the desk where two or three young
men appeared to be doing most of the world's business.

"Marsters!"

The three looked up.

"Good mawnin', young marsters. I'm 'bleeged to go now. I cert'nly thank
you-all fo' lettin' me set in de cheer. I won't wait fo' marse David
Lance no mo', sir. Good mawnin', marsters."

A smiling courtesy dropped, and she was gone.

"I'll be darned!" remarked reporter number one.

"Where did that blow in from?" added reporter number two.

But reporter number three had imagination. "The dearest old soul I've
seen in a blue moon," said he.

Aunt Basha proceeded down the street and more than one in the crowd
glanced twice at the erect, stout figure swinging, like a quaint and
stately ship in full sail, among the steam-tuggery of up-to-date
humanity. There were high steps leading to the bank entrance, impressive
and alarming to Aunt Basha. She paused to take breath for this
adventure. Was a humble old colored woman permitted to walk freely in at
those grand doors, open iron-work and enormous of size? She did not
know. She stood a moment, suddenly frightened and helpless, not daring
to go on, looking about for a friendly face. And behold! there it
was--the friendliest face in the world, it seemed to the lost old
soul--a vision of loveliness. It was the face of a beautiful young white
lady in beautiful clothes who had stepped from a huge limousine. She was
coming up the steps, straight to Aunt Basha. She saw the old woman, saw
her anxious hesitation, and halted. The next event was a heavenly smile.
Aunt Basha knew the repartee to that, and the smile that shone in answer
was as heavenly in its