HE Warren homestead was in a turmoil of excitement over Helen's return. The ex-slaves of the family for miles around had assembled to celebrate the occasion in quite the ante-bellum fashion. The men and grown boys sat about the front lawn and on the steps of the long veranda and talked of the day Helen was born, of her childhood, of her beauty and numerous conquests, away from them, and of the bare possibility of her deigning to accept the hand of some one of her powerful and wealthy suitors.

In her own chamber, a great square room with many windows, Helen, tall, graceful, with light-brown eyes and almost golden hair, was receiving the women and girls. She had brought a present suitable for each of them, as they knew she would, and the general rejoicing was equal to that of an old-time Georgia Christmas.

“You are all here,” Helen smiled, as she looked about the room, “except Mam' Linda. Is she not well?”

“Yessum, she's well as common,” Jennie, a yellow house-maid, said, “as well as she been since Pete had dat scrimmage wid de White Caps. Missie, you gwine notice er gre't change in Mam' Lindy. Since dat turrible night, while she seem strong in de body, she looks powerful weak in de face en sperit. Unc' Lewis is worried about 'er. She des set in er cottage do' en rock back an' fo'th all day long. You done heard 'bout dat lambastin', 'ain't you, Missie?”

“Yes, my father wrote me about it,” Helen replied, an expression of sympathetic pain on her well-featured face, “but he didn't tell me that mammy was taking it so hard.”

“He was tryin' ter keep you fum worryin',” Jennie said, observantly. “Marster knowed how much sto' you set by yo' old mammy. He was de maddest man you ever laid eyes on dat night, but he couldn't do nothin', fer it was all over, en dem white trash done skedaddle back whar dey come fum.”.

“And was Pete so much to blame?” Helen asked, her voice shaking.

“Blame fer de company he been keepin', Missie—dat's all; but what you gwine ter do wid er strappin' young nigger growin' up? It des like it was in de old day fo' de war. De niggers had to have deir places ter meet an' cut up shines. Dey been done too much of it at Ike Bowen's. De white folks dat lived round dar couldn't sleep at night. It was one long shindig or a fist-cuff scrap fum supper till daylight.”

“Well, I wish Mam' Linda would come to see me,” Helen said. “I'm anxious about her. If she isn't here soon I'll go to her.”

“She's comin' right on, Missie,” another negro girl said, “but she tol' Unc' Lewis she was gwine ter wait till we all cleared out. She say you her baby, en she ain't gwine ter be bothered wid so many, when she see you de fust time after so long.”

“That's exactly like her,” Helen smiled. “Well, you all must go now, and, Jennie, tell her I am dying to see her.”

The room was soon cleared of its chattering and laughing throng, and Linda, supported by her husband, a stalwart mulatto, came from her cottage behind the house and went up to Helen's room. She was short, rather portly, about half white, and for that reason had a remarkably intelligent face which bore the marks of a strong character. Entering the room, after sharply enjoining her husband to wait for her in the hall, she went straight up to Helen and laid her hand on the young lady's head.

“So I got my baby back once mo',” she said, tenderly.

“Yes, I couldn't stay away, Mammy,” Helen said, with an indulgent smile. “After all, home is the sweetest place on earth—but you mustn't stand up; get a chair.”

The old woman obeyed, slowly placing the chair near that of her mistress and sitting down. “I'm glad you got back, honey,” she said. “I loves all my white folks, but you is my baby, en I never could talk to de rest of um lak I kin ter you. Oh, honey, yo' old mammy has had lots en lots er trouble!”

“I know, Mammy, father wrote me about it, and I've heard more since I got here. I know how you love Pete.”

Linda folded her arms on her breast and leaned forward till her elbows rested on her knees. Helen saw a wave of emotion shake her whole body as she straightened up and faced her with eyes that seemed melting in grief. “Honey,” she said, “folks said when de law come en give we all freedom dat de good day was at hand. It was ter be a time er plenty en joy fer black folks; but, honey, never while I was er slave did I had ter suffer what I'm goin' thoo now. In de old time marster looked after us; de lash never was laid on de back er one o' his niggers. No white pusson never dared to hit one of us, en yit now in dis day er glorious freedom, er whole gang of um come in de dead er night en tied my child wid ropes en tuck turn about lashin' 'im. Honey, sometimes I think dey ain't no Gawd fer a pusson wid one single streak er black blood in 'im. Ef dey is er Gawd fer sech es me, why do He let me pass thoo what been put on me? I heard dat boy's cryin' half er mile, honey, en stood in de flo' er my house en couldn't move, listenin' en listenin' ter his screams en dat lash failin' on 'im. Den dey let 'im loose en he come runnin' erlong de street ter find me—ter find his mammy, honey—his mammy who couldn't do nothin' fer 'im. En dar right at my feet he fell over in er faint. I thought he was dead en never would open his eyes ergin.”

“And I wasn't here to comfort you!” Helen said, in a tearful tone of self-reproach. “You were alone through it all.”

“No, I wasn't, honey. Thank de Lawd, dar is some er de right kind er white folks left. Marse Carson Dwight heard it all fum his room en come over. He raised Pete up en tuck 'im in an' laid 'im on de baid. He tuck 'im up in his arms, honey, young marster did, en set to work to bring 'im to. An' after de po' boy was easy en ersleep en de doctor gone off, Marse Carson come ter me en tuck my hand. 'Mam' Lindy,' he said, es pale as ef he'd been sick er long time, 'dis night's work has give me some'n' ter think erbout. De best white men in de Souf won't stan' fer dis. Sech things cayn't go on forever. Ef I go to de Legislature I'll see dat dey gwine ter pass laws ter pertect you faithful old folks.”

“Carson said that?” Helen's voice was husky, her glance averted.

“Yes, en he was dead in earnest, honey; he wasn't des talkin' ter comfort me. I know, kase I done hear suppen else dat happened since den.”

“What was that?” Helen asked.

“Why, dey say dat Marse Carson went straight down-town en tried ter find somebody dat was in de mob. He heard Dan Willis was among 'em—you know who he is, honey. He's er bad, desp'rate moonshine man. Well, Marse Carson spoke his mind about 'im, an' dared 'im out in de open. Unc' Lewis said Mr. Garner an' all Marse Carson's friends tried to stop 'im, kase it would go dead agin 'im in his 'lection, but Marse Carson wouldn't take back er word, en was so mad he couldn't hold in. En dat another hard thing to bear, honey,” Linda went on. “Des think, Marse Carson cayn't even try to help er po' old woman lak me widout ruinin' his own chances.”

“Is it as serious as that?” Helen asked, with deep concern.

“Yes, honey, he never kin win his race lessen he act diffunt. Dey say dat man Wiggin is laughin' fit ter kill hisse'f over de way he got de upper hold. I told Marse Carson des t'other day he mustn't do dat way, but he laughed in my face in de sweet way he always did have. 'Ef dey vote ergin me fer dat, Mam' Lindy,' he say, 'deir votes won't be worth much.' Marse Carson is sho got high principle, honey. His pa think he ain't worth much, but he's all right. You mark my words, he's gwine ter make a gre't big man—he gwine ter do dat kase he's got er tender heart in 'im, an ain't afeard of anything dat walk on de yeath. He may lose dis one 'lection, but he'll not stop. I know young white men, thoo en thoo, en I never y it seen er better one.”

“Have you—have you seen him recently?” Helen asked, surprised at the catch in her voice.

“Oh yes, honey,” the old woman said, plaintively; “seem lak he know how I'm sufferin', en he been comin' over often en talkin' ter me'n Lewis. Seem lak he's so sad, honey, here late. Ain't you seed 'im yit, honey?”

“No, he hasn't been over,” Helen replied, rather awkwardly. “He will come, though; he and I are good friends.”

“You gwine find 'im changed er lot, honey,” the old woman said. “Do you know, I don't believe he ever got over Marse Albert's death. He warn't ter blame 'bout dat, honey, dough I do believe he feel dat way. Seem lak we never kin fetch up Marse Albert's name widout Marse Carson git sad. One night here late when Lewis was talkin' 'bout when yo' pa went off en fetched young master home, Marse Carson hung his head en say: 'Mam' Lindy, I wish dat time could be go over ergin. I would act so diffunt. I never seed whar all dem scrapes was leadin' to. But it learned me a lesson, Mam' Lindy.'”

“That's it,” Helen said, bitterly, as if to herself; “he survived. He has profited by the calamity, but my poor, dear brother—” She went no further, for her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears.

“Don't think erbout dat, honey,” old Linda said, consolingly. “You got yo' one great trouble lak I has, but you is at home wid we all now, en you must not be sad.”

“I don't intend to be, Mammy,” Helen said, wiping her eyes on her handkerchief. “We are going to try to do something to keep Pete out of trouble. Father thinks it is his associates that are to blame. We must try in future to keep him away from bad company.”

“Dat what I want ter do, honey,” the old woman said, “en ef I des had somewhar ter send 'im so he could be away fum dis town I'd be powerful glad.”