Tesney, the frail, the good, the beautiful mulatto, was known of child, man, woman, and beast.

"Wait, Tesney! We have something good for you and a secret to tell." Daily such invitations came from the white children of the neighborhood. Daily Tesney ate "good things" and listened to talks about dolls, playmates, stories, and so on. The dogs that accompanied the children pulled Tesney's apron strings and seemed to enjoy her good nature and the confidence of her little white friends.

"What a servant she is!" said white family men, as they passed. "She fondles the babies, and they do not cry. She talks, and older children listen. She moves, and they follow her. She does not command, but they do her bidding. There should be a million such as she."

"She is a lady born," said white women. "May no ill befall her."

Tesney was servant to Mrs. Wakely, a wealthy Southern white woman. Tesney's presence was energy to the other young negro servants. They thought of her, and put thought into their work. They looked at her and dignified their persons. "There may be queens of the kitchen as well as queens of the parlor," said they. "We belong to the first. Let us glory in the honor."

The lace curtains at the windows, the pictures on the wall, the lint on the carpet, the china in the closet, the wearing apparel of Mrs. Wakely, and the food on the table, all knew the touch of Tesney's delicate yellow hand. The washerwoman followed her instructions, and the clothes lasted months longer.

The other servants learned through her that honesty in a servant is a greater virtue than dignity in a parlor queen, and the grocery bill was reduced ten per cent. She studied the needs of the family, and expenses were reduced ten per cent. more. Her forethought for the family and her genius in arranging games and work for the children gave Mrs. Wakely many hours of leisure and comfort.

"The house can do without me for hours," said Mrs. Wakely to her guests, "but it cannot do without Tesney for a minute."

Tesney's mother was a mulatto, with the hair and features of that type. She died when Tesney was too young to know anything about her. Tesney never knew her father, but she had a suspicion. Her suspicion was wrong, and it caused all her trouble. She heard Agnes, who knew her mother, talk, and it was upon Agnes' talk that Tesney had founded her suspicion.

"He is my father," she often said to herself, as a certain rich man of another race passed by. "He will give me something some day."

On her twenty-third birthday she saw Mrs. Wakely in company with this man. After leaving the man, Mrs. Wakely said: "Tesney, here is a ring your father sent to you. Look on the inside of it."

Tesney looked, and read: "To my daughter, Tesney."

"The man, Mrs. Wakely?" asked Tesney.

"Your father."

"His name, please?"

"Do you not know? Has not Agnes told you all about it? She said she would."

Tesney wore the ring, and renewed her hopes of getting something from the man whom she considered her father.

That very afternoon a pony, hitched to a dogcart and driven by Tesney, became frightened and ran. To keep the two children behind her from jumping from the cart and receiving unnecessary bruises Tesney held them with one hand and gripped the lines with the other. However, the animal's wild flight was of short duration, for the man of Tesney's suspicion stopped the pony and led the now docile beast back to Mrs. Wakely's gate. As Tesney lifted the crying children from the cart he said:

"Tesney, you are a good, brave girl. I was talking to Mrs. Wakely this morning about you. I gave her a ring for you. How do you like the present?"

"Well, sir, well," answered Tesney.

There were tears in her eyes, but the man did not see them.

"Tesney," continued the man, "how would you like to live with me?"

"Well, sir, well," answered Tesney.

Mrs. Wakely now hurried from the house, having witnessed the misadventure of the ponycart.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Bankner, thank you!" she cried. "The children are all right, are they not? Tesney is a good, brave girl, isn't she?"

"She is that, and more," replied the man, as he bowed and departed.

Tesney wore the ring, remembered the invitation, and renewed her hopes.

Three months from that day Tesney stood behind Aunt Agnes combing her hair while Agnes examined the ring. Agnes was about sixty years old, an ex-slave, a meddler, and liar. Her three hundred and fifty pounds kept her in her big arm-chair. There she made the coffee, beat the biscuits, abused the cook, lied to Mrs. Wakely, said the blessing, and urged all to live good Christian lives. She had nursed Tesney and knew her ancestry.

She called Tesney her daughter, and wished her for a daughter-in-law. Tesney was fond of Agnes, but scorned her son, who was unfit for any woman.

"Read, Aunt Agnes," said Tesney, "while I comb."

"No; you jes' stop combin' an' read."

Tesney read the inscription, and dropped a word about her suspicion.

"Now, comb on, chile. Me! My! Whew! Stop, chile, stop! Dat comb's mighty fine. Whut dat you say 'bout dem ring-wuds an' dat big white man?"

Tesney repeated the inscription and emphasized her suspicion.

"Is dat so?" asked Agnes doubtfully.

"Didn't you as good as say so, Aunt Agnes?"

"Maybe I did, chile. Now, look heah, chile, is you gwine ter be my daughter-in-law?"

"Aunt Agnes, it cannot be. You know your son is a bad man."

"Yes, chile; but er bad man needs er good wife."

"Thanks, Aunt Agnes; but it cannot be."

"George, you triflin' rascal, come heah," Agnes called to her son.

George entered and smiled at Tesney, who frowned and turned her back upon him.

"Son," continued Agnes, "daughter says no. It's good 'nough. Go, you triflin' rascal, go."

George went.

"Chile," said Agnes, with a great show of kindness, "you is right. You knows dat you is good-blooded stock. Fine stylish white blood runs in yo' veins. You is right, chile. Look up! Look up! You knows whut de yeast does fur de bread. White dignity does dat fur yo' blood. You knows whut de skerecrow does fur de cornfield. White wisdom does dat fur yo' womanhood. Whut de steam does fur de steam-cyar white go-er-head does fur you. You is right, chile. Look up! Now you mus' be feelin' mighty good. Ain't you? George is er little no-er-count, but Agnes'll wuk fur Tesney, an' George'll wuk fur Tesney, an' won't dat be er good bargain? Honey chile, say dat it will, an' please de heart ob po' ole Agnes."

"Aunt Agnes, it cannot be."

"Does you mean dat, chile?"

"I mean it, Aunt Agnes."

"Does you mean eb'ry wud ob it?"

"I mean every word of it."

"Now, I'se gwine ter make you er speech, you ha'f-white nigger. You thinks bekase yo' face ain't whut you calls raal black, an' bekase yo' haih ain't smack-dab ter yo' haid, an' bekase—— Oh, Tesney, honey chile, don't cry dat way. Aunt Agnes wus jes' er foolin'. I takes it all back. Let me kiss you all ober de face. Dere now. I knows dat you's in good humor. You sees, chile, how Aunt Agnes kin hurt yo' feelin's. You better be George's wife den hab yo' feelin's hurt all de time."

"It cannot be, Aunt Agnes. Don't ask me any more."

"Now, I'll say de res' ob my speech. It'll not be er speech ob wuds, nuther. It'll be one ob acts. It'll hit you hard. It'll make you 'shamed ob yo-self. It'll dribe yo' friends ter turn dey backs erpon you. It'll put you out ob doors. It'll make you say: 'I'se er fool—er fool.' It'll hit you hard—hard."

Agnes stopped to breathe. Mrs. Wakely entered the kitchen. Tesney was looking at the ring.

"Tesney," said Agnes, "yo' mother wus er ooman nearly white, an' yo' father wus er nigger man."

"My father!" gasped Tesney. "I have always learned that my father was——"

"Yo' father wus whut I tells you, chile."

"What have you always told me?"

"Listen! I tells you de facts. I tells you de facts."

"Aunt Agnes!" screamed Tesney.

"Tesney," said Mrs. Wakely; "that information seems to trouble you."

"Ha! ha! De chile! Ha! ha!" Agnes stopped to hold her sides.

"Why, Agnes, what is the matter?" asked Mrs. Wakely.

"Ha! ha! De chile thinks de man whut gibed you dat ring fur her is her father."

"Do you, Tesney?" asked Mrs. Wakely sharply.

Tesney put the ring on her finger and remained silent.

"Speak, Tesney! The matter is serious," demanded Mrs. Wakely.

"I do," answered Tesney. "Did not Mr. Bankner give you the ring for me?"

"He did."

"Did you not say that the ring was sent to me by my father?"

"Your father sent it to you; but another brought it to me."

"Is you sma't 'nough ter see de differunce between de sendin' an' de bringin' ob er thing, chile?"

Tesney looked at Mrs. Wakely and nodded.

"Have you not deceived yourself?"

"I have in part. Aunt Agnes, here——"

"De chile lies! De chile lies! Mrs. Wakely, de chile——!"

"Be quiet, Agnes," demanded Mrs. Wakely. "You are too fat to become eloquent with ease and safety."

"She better be," said the washerwoman, who happened to stop at the window a few seconds. "All de coffins erbout heah is fur heabenly-sized people."

Agnes, in a rage at this interruption, turned and threw the rolling-pin at the washerwoman, but she was at a safe distance.

"Tesney, Agnes said that she would explain this whole affair to you."

"Missus Wakely, you has knowed ole Agnes er long, long time, an' jes' as sho' as you an' me is gwine ter de same heaben, jes' so sho' I wus gwine ter tell dis chile de whole truth, but she kep' on makin' de lookin'-glass talk erbout her face an' her haih dat I jes' thought I'd fling out er little hint an' lay low."

"I knew your father, Tesney; and, as Agnes says, he was a negro."

"I reckons you'll beliebe now," shouted Agnes. "De white folks done said so."

"Heah is yo' rollin'-pin," said the washerwoman, as she paused at the window on her return.

"Hand it heah," demanded Agnes.

"I will when you is ob er sweet temper," answered the washerwoman.

"Please to explain about my father and the ring."

"Your father, Tesney," Mrs. Wakely went on, "was reared in Mr. Bankner's family. He married a woman whom none of us, save Agnes, ever knew. Shortly after the death of your mother, he killed a man in self-defense. Mr. Bankner's people, knowing the circumstances, furnished your father money with which to escape. Mr. Bankner, a few weeks before he gave me the ring, saw your father and told him of you. Your father bought the ring, had the inscription put in it, and intended to bring it to you himself. However, at the request of Mr. Bankner he had returned to the scene of the killing for trial, and was mobbed. Mr. Bankner secured the ring before his death, and gave it to me for you. Now, as we are to leave for the West within a year, Mr. Bankner would like to have you serve in his family. He holds himself somewhat responsible for your father's death, and would like to help you. I would have told you this before, but Agnes asked me to leave it to her."

Mrs. Wakely now left the room, giving Agnes a stern look on her way out.

"Aunt Agnes," sobbed Tesney, "I have been deceived as to my father, and maybe as to my mother."

"Has you bin deceibed in me too, chile?"

"Yes."

"Den ma'ry George, an' be deceibed in him."

"It cannot be, Aunt Agnes."

"Now I'll say de res' ob dat speech I tol' you erbout. You may ma'ry George yit. Mr. Bankner may heah from dis. He shall heah from it. Do you think he'd ever let you stay in his house den?"

Tesney left the room in silence.

"George, you triflin' rascal, come heah. I got things started, son. Listen! Watch me! You don't desarbe it, but watch me. Tell Mr. Bankner dat Tesney says dat he is her father. Go! You good as got Tesney now. Go!" As George went out the door, Agnes added: "Dat's er triflin' rascal, but he's my George." Agnes began to grind the coffee, but stopped to abuse the cook.

George contrived to have the message of Agnes reach Mr. Bankner's ears. Agnes, in turn, told Tesney that the rich white man knew of her suspicion. Tesney looked at the ring, and said: "I am Tesney the deceived."

A few months after this Mr. Bankner sent his wife and children to Europe, and came to board with Mrs. Wakely. Tesney, knowing that George had had his mother's message delivered, feared the result. She worried until she was a mere skeleton of her former self.

"I cannot face my blunder," she said. "I must leave."

She accordingly rented a room and lived alone. In a short time she took to her bed as the result of isolation and worry.

When Agnes heard of Tesney's illness she said: "Dis is our chance, son."

Her three hundred and fifty pounds were soon at Tesney's bedside. Tesney was flighty. George and the preacher came. George held her hand while the preacher asked questions. George answered for himself, and Agnes answered for Tesney.

A week passed. Tesney arose from her pillow and said to Agnes: "Are you here?"

"Yes, chile," answered Agnes; "an' George, yo' husban', is heah, too."

"George, my husband!" ejaculated Tesney.

"Yes, child," said the preacher, who happened to be present, "I married you to him a week ago."

Tesney swooned, and fell back upon her pillow. When next conscious of her surroundings, Tesney found herself in bed in a log cabin, with her three-hundred-and-fifty-pound tormentor still at her side.

From that time until her death she was a prisoner. Not more than a dozen times did she seem sane. She would stand before the glass and ask for her old self. Sometimes she called Agnes a girl. Then she would call her a woman.

"Agnes," said she, on one occasion, "here is a rope. Let us skip."

When Tesney's baby boy was between three and four weeks old George was killed in a drunken brawl. Two days afterward he was buried, a short distance from the house. Tesney was in bed. Agnes did not go to the grave. She dragged her three hundred and fifty pounds out doors to cool, cry, and repent.

Tesney took a looking-glass from under her pillow and looked at herself.

"Tesney has come back again," she said. "This is her face. This is her hair. Tesney has come back again." Then turning to the wasting child at her side, she said: "Don't cry, little rascal. You are a George, like your father. Little fool, don't cry. Night will soon come. You may go then. Cry, cry, little George! Stop! Stop!"

Tesney fell asleep. After several hours she was awakened by the crying of her baby. It was night. She took the baby in her arms and stole softly out of the house in her bare feet. She went straight to George's grave and sat down upon it.

"Little rascal," said she to the baby, "your father is in the ground and can't steal me any more. Agnes can't follow me. You must not be a big George. How you are growing! Stop! I'll hold your legs and arms. Stop! You won't? You must!"

She dug a hole in the top of the grave with her hands. She placed the baby in it, and covered it as well as she could. She then sat on a stump nearby and said not a word for several minutes. Tesney, sitting there, paid no heed to the rising wind, nor the distant flash of the lightning. Presently it thundered. She arose, put her hand to her ear, like one at a telephone, and waited. It thundered again. She leaned to listen. There was more lightning.

"My name?" asked she. "It is Tesney." There were renewed thunder and lightning. "My baby?" asked she. "I sent it up. Is it there?" Again it thundered, again the lightning flashed. "It is not there?" she asked. "I must come with it? All right! Welcome!" She ran to the grave and uncovered the baby. It kicked feebly and gave a faint cry. "I knew you were still here," she said. "The Voice of the Clouds said so." A terrible storm was breaking. "Listen, little rascal: We go together. Listen! The Voice is coming. We go! We go!"

These were her last words. She embraced the baby and sat calmly down upon the grave amid the raging elements. The storm's fury lasted an hour or more. The next morning Tesney and the baby were lying dead on George's grave.

Agnes had Tesney and the baby buried in the same grave with George. After ten years of terrible mental and bodily suffering Agnes died. A certain part of each day during this time she spent looking at Tesney's ring and praying aloud. Some said that her intense agony and earnest prayer thoroughly purged her soul of guilt. Others said not so. God knows.