' uv de ole man's rheumatiz arter all dis
time!" exclaimed the delighted Uncle Billy. "'Twus mighty po'ly,
thankee, li'l Marster, but de sight o' you done make it better a'ready.
I 'clar 'fo' Gracious, if de sight of you wouldn' be good for so' eyes!
Socifyin' wid dem wile furren nations ain' hu't you a bit--'deed it
ain't!"

"How did you expect them to hurt me, Uncle Billy?" asked Edgar,
laughing.

"I was 'feard dey mought make a _Injun_, or sum'in' out'n you."

"G'long, Billy," put in his wife, with increased contempt, "Marse Eddie
ain' been socifyin' wid no Injuns--he been socifyin' wid kings an'
queens' settin' on dey thrones, wid crowns on dey haids an' spectres in
dey han's! Come 'long in de house, Honey, an' set awhile wid Mammy."

As they crossed the threshold of the humble abode, Edgar looked around
upon its familiar, homely snugness with satisfaction--at the huge,
four-post bed, covered with a cheerful "log cabin" quilt made of scraps
of calico of every known hue and pattern; at the white-washed walls
adorned with pictures cut from old books and magazines; at the "shelf,"
as Mammy called the mantel-piece, with its lambrequin of scallopped
strips of newspaper, and its china vases filled with hundred-leaf roses
and pinks; at the spotless bare floor and homemade split-bottomed
chairs; at the small, but bright, windows, with their rows of geraniums
and verbenas, brilliantly blooming in boxes, tin-cans and broken-nosed
tea-pots.

Almost all that Mammy could say was,

"Lordy, Lordy, Honey, how you has growed!" Or, "Jes' to think of Mammy's
baby sech a big boy!"

Presently a shadow crossed her face. "Honey," she said, "You gittin' to
be sech a man now, you won't have no mo' use fur po' ole Mammy. Dar
won't be a thing fur her to do fur sech a big man-chile."

"Don't you believe that, for a minute, Mammy," was the quick reply. "I
was just wondering if you had forgotten how to make those good
ash-cakes."

"Now, jes' listen to de chile, makin' game o' his ole Mammy!" she
exclaimed. "Livin' so high wid all dem hifalutin' kings an' queens an'
sech, an' den comin' back here an' makin' ten' he wouldn' 'spise Mammy's
ash-cakes!"

"I'm in dead earnest, Mammy. Indeed, indeed and double deed, I am. Kings
and queens don't have anything on their tables half as good as one of
your ash-cakes, with a glass of cool butter-milk."

"Dat so, Honey?" she queried, with wonder. "Den you sho'ly shall have
some, right away. Mam