"I mout 'a know'd, becaze he didn't have no red striped
pants. An' de whiskers is diff'ent, too. 'Scuse me, sir, and thank you
kindly, marster. Thank you, young miss. De Lawd bress you fo' helpin' de
ole 'oman." She had risen and she dropped her old time curtsey at this
point. "Mawnin' to yo', marster and young miss."

But the girl sprang up. "You can't go," she said. "I'm going to take you
to my house to see my grandmother. She's Southern, and our name is
Cabell, and likely--maybe--she knew your people down South."

"Maybe, young miss. Dar's lots o' Cabells," agreed Aunt Basha, and in
three minutes found herself where she had never thought to be, inside a
fine private car.

She was dumb with rapture and excitement, and quite unable to answer the
girl's friendly words except with smiles and nods. The girl saw how it
was and let her be, only patting the calico arm once and again
reassuringly. "I wonder if she didn't want to come. I wonder if I've
frightened her," thought Eleanor Cabell. When into the silence broke
suddenly the rich, high, irresistible music which was Aunt Basha's
laugh, and which David Lance had said was pitched on "Q sharp." The girl
joined the infectious sound and a moment after that the car stopped.

"This is home," said Eleanor.

Aunt Basha observed, with the liking for magnificence of a servant
trained in a large house, the fine facade and the huge size of "home."
In a moment she was inside, and "young miss" was carefully escorting her
into a sunshiny big room, where a wood fire burned, and a bird sang, and
there were books and flowers.

"Wait here, Aunt Basha, dear," Eleanor said, "and I'll get Grandmother."
It was exactly like the loveliest of dreams, Aunt Basha told Jeems an
hour later. It could not possibly have been true, except that it was.
When "Grandmother" came in, slender and white-haired and a bit
breathless with this last surprise of a surprising granddaughter, Aunt
Basha stood and curtsied her stateliest.

Then suddenly she cried out, "Fo' God! Oh, my Miss Jinny!" and fell on
her knees.

Mrs. Cabell gazed down, startled. "Who is it? Oh, whom have you brought
me, Eleanor?" She bent to look more closely at Aunt Basha, kneeling,
speechless, tears streaming from the brave old eyes, holding up clasped
hand imploring. "It isn't--Oh, my dear, I believe it _is_ our own old
nurse, Basha, who took care of your father!"

"Yas'm. Yas, Miss Jinny," endorsed Aunt Basha, climbing to her feet