Until recently it had been the custom for Miss Ann Peyton, on every fine afternoon, to have old Billy drive her forth for an airing. It exercised the horses and gave Billy a definite occupation, besides affording some change of scene for his mistress. This habit of a lifetime had been abandoned because Miss Ann and Billy had come to a tacit understanding that the less the old coach was used the better for all concerned. Like the hoop skirt, little of the original creation remained. It had been repaired here and renewed there through the ages, until the body was all that the carriage maker would have acknowledged and that had many patches.

The coach had been a very handsome vehicle in its day, with heavy silver mountings and luxurious upholstery. The silver mounting was Billy’s pride and despair. No fussy housekeeper ever kept her silver service any brighter than Billy did the trimmings of the old carriage, but in late years there never seemed to be room in 137 any carriage house for Miss Ann’s coach and it took much rubbing to obliterate the stains caused by continual exposure. Billy often found a new rent in the cushions, from which the hair stuffing protruded impertinently. He would poke it back and take a clumsy stitch only to have it burst forth in a fresh place.

There had always been a place in the carriage house at Buck Hill for Cousin Ann’s coach until the family had gone in largely for automobiles and then the carriage house had been converted into a garage, the horse-drawn vehicles in a great measure discarded and now the ancient coach must find shelter under a shed, with various farming implements. Billy felt this to be as much of an insult as putting his mistress out of the guest chamber, but he must make the best of it and never let Miss Ann know. Of course the coach must be ready to take the princess to the ball. Wheels must be greased and silver polished.

“I wisht my mammy done taught me howter sew,” old Billy muttered, as he awkwardly punched a long needle in and out of the cushions, vainly endeavoring to unite the torn edges.

“What’s the matter, Uncle Billy?” asked Jeff Bucknor, who had just crawled from under one of the cars, where he had been delightfully 138 employed in a manner peculiar to some males, finding out what was wrong with the mysterious workings of an automobile.

“Nothin’ ’tall, Mr. Jeff! I wa’ jes’ kinder ruminatin’ to myse’f. I din’t know nobody wa’ clost enough ter hear me. I wa’ ’lowin’ ter sew up this here cushion so’s it would las’ ’til me’n Miss Ann gits time ter have this here ca’ige reumholzered. We’re thinkin’ a nice sof’ pearl gray welwit will be purty. What do you think, Mr. Jeff?”

“I think pearl gray would be lovely and it would look fine with the handsome silver mountings, but in the meantime wouldn’t you like me to give you some tow linen slips that belong to one of the cars. You could tack them on over your cushions and it would freshen things up a lot.”

“Thankee, Marster, thankee! If it wouldn’t unconwenience you none.” Old Billy’s eyes were filling with tears. It was seldom in late years that anyone, white or colored, stopped to give him kind words or offers of assistance. The servants declared the old man was too disobliging himself to deserve help and the white people seemed to have forgotten him.

Jeff got the freshly laundered linen covers and then climbed into the old coach and deftly 139 fastened them with brass headed tacks.

“Now I do hope Cousin Ann will like her summer coverings,” he said.

“She’s sho’ too—an’ we’s moughty ’bleeged ter you, Marse Jeff. Miss Ann an’ me air jes’ been talkin’ ’bout how much you favors yo’ gran’pap, Marse Bob Bucknor as war. I don’t want ter put no disrespec’ on yo’ gran’mammy, but if Marse Bob Bucknor had er had his way Miss Ann would er been her.”

“I believe I have heard that Grandfather was very much in love with Cousin Ann. Why did she turn him down?” asked Jeff, trying not to laugh.

“Well, my Miss Ann had so many beau lovers she didn’t know which-away ter turn. Her bes’ beau lover, Marse Bert Mason, got kilt in the wah an’ Miss Ann got it in her haid she mus’ grieve jes’ so long fer him. But the truf wa’ that Miss Ann wouldn’t a had him if he had er come back. She wa’n’t ready ter step off but she wa’ ’lowin’ ter have her fling. Then the ol’ home kotched afire an’ then me’n Miss Ann didn’t have no sho’ ’nough home an’ we got ter visitin’ roun’ an’ Marse Bob, yo’ gran’pap, kep a pleadin’ an’ Miss Ann she kep’ a visitin’, fust one place then anudder, an’ Marse Bob he got kinder tired a followin’ aroun’ takin’ our dus’ 140 an’ befo’ you knowd it he done tramsfered his infections ter yo’ gran’mammy, an’ a nice lady she wa’, but can’t none er them hol’ a can’le ter my Miss Ann, then or now—’cept’n maybe that purty red-headed gal what goes a whizzin’ aroun’ the county an’ don’t drap her eyes fer nobody. ’Thout goin’ back a mite on my Miss Ann, I will say that that young white gal sho’ do run Miss Ann a clost second.”

“You mean Miss Judith Buck, Uncle Billy?” and Jeff’s face flushed. He had been thinking a great deal about Judith Buck and he was trying to school himself to stop thinking about her. Yet it pleased him that the old darkey should thus mention her.

“Yes sah, Miss Judith Buck.”

“Goodness, Uncle Billy, what is that strange rumbling and buzzing I hear?” interrupted Jeff. “Your carriage sounds as though you had installed a motor in the rear.”

“Lawsamussy, Mr. Jeff, that ain’t nothin’ but a bumbly bee nes’, what we done pick up somewhere on our roun’s. Them bees sho’ do give me trouble an’ it looks like I can’t lose ’em. ’Course I could smoke ’em out but somehow I hates ter make the po’ things homeless an’ I reckon they’s got a notion that the hollow place in the back er this here ca’ige b’longs ter them 141 an’ the knot hole they done bored is the front do’. When me’n Miss Ann has ter drive on I jes’ sticks a cawn cob in the hole an’ the bees trabels with us. Sometimes their buzzin’ air kinder comp’ny ter me. I ain’t complainin’ but times I’m lonesome an’ I wisht I mought er had a little cabin somewheres an’ mebbe some folks er my own.”

“Yes, Uncle Billy, I know you must get tired of not having a real home of your own. Didn’t you ever marry and haven’t you any kin?”

“No sah, I ain’t never married an’ as fer as I knows I ain’t got any kin this side er the grabe. You see, sah, it wa’ this a way. I been kinder lookin’ arfter Miss Ann sence she wa’ a gal an’ I always said ter myself, ‘Now when my mistis marries I’ll go a courtin’ but not befo’.’ I had kinder took up with Mandy, a moughty likely gal back there jes’ after the wa’ and me’n her had been a talkin’ moughty sof’ befo’ Miss Ann lef’ home that time when the ol’ place burnt up. It looks like I never could leave Miss Ann long enuf to go back an’ finish my confab with Mandy. An’ arter a while Mandy must er got tired of waitin’ fer me an’ she took up with a big buck nigger from Jeff’son County an’ they do say she had goin’ onter twenty chilluns an’ about fo’ husbands.” 142

“Uncle Billy, you have certainly been faithful to Cousin Ann. I don’t see what she would have done without you.”

“Gawd grant she won’t never have ter, Marse Jeff! It’ll be a sad day fer this ol’ nigger when Miss Ann goes but I’m a hopin’ an’ prayin’ she’ll go befo’ I’m called. If I should die they would’n be nobody ter fotch an’ carry fer Miss Ann. She gits erlong moughty fine here at Buck Hill, but some places I have ter kinder fend fer us-alls right smart. Miss Ann air that proudified she don’t never demand but ol’ Billy he knows an’ he does the demandin’ fer her. An’ I presses her frocks an’ sometimes I makes out to laundry fer her in some places whar we visits an’ the missus don’t see fit ter put Miss Ann’s siled clothes along with the fambly wash. An’ I fin’s wil’ strawberries fer her, an’ sometimes fiel’ mushrooms, an’ sometimes I goes out in the fall an’ knocks over a patridge an’ I picks an’ briles it an’ sarves it up fer a little extry treat fer my lady.”

“She certainly would be lost without you, Uncle Billy, but I’m going to make you a promise. If you should be called before my cousin I do solemnly swear that I’ll see to it that she has every comfort. The family owes you that much and I for one will do what I 143 can for Cousin Ann. On the other hand, if Cousin Ann should go first, I’ll do what I can to help you.”

“Oh, Marse Bob—I mean Marse Jeff—you air lif’ a load from a ol’ man’s heart. Yo’ gran’pap air sho’ come ter life agin in his prodigy. Nothin’ ain’t gonter make much diffunce ter me arfter this. I been a thinkin’ some er my burdins wa’ mo’ than I kin bear, but ’tain’t so. My back air done fitted ter them, kase you done eased me er my load.” The old man wept, great tears running down his furrowed brown cheeks and glistening on his long, grotesque beard.