“Well, I say it’s a good thing these cousins of yours didn’t decide sooner to recognize you, Judy, because if they had we wouldn’t have had a single chair with a bottom left in it and the hooked rugs your Grandmother Knight brought to Kentucky would have been nothing but holes,” declared Mrs. Buck. “I never saw so much company in my born days and constant setting wears out chairs and constant rocking wears out rugs.

“I don’t say as it isn’t nice to have company. I’ve been lonesome, in a way, all my life, because my mother and father weren’t much hands at mixing, feeling themselves to be kind of different from the folks here in Kentucky, and then I married young, and trouble came early, and my poor dear husband’s father wasn’t the kind to attract the kind of people my mother felt were our equals—but now, sakes alive, never a day passes but it isn’t cousin this and 252 cousin that, coming to call or ringing the ’phone or sending some kind of present to Miss Ann.

“What do they expect Miss Ann to do with a bushel of winter onions and a barrel of potatoes and a keg of cider and a barrel of flour and six sides of bacon, two jowls and three hams, besides two barrels of apples and a hind quarter of the prettiest mutton I’ve seen for many a day? This morning a truck drove up with enough wood to last us half through the winter—the best kind of oak and pine mixed and all cut stove length ready for splitting. That old Billy is mighty nice about splitting the wood and bringing it in. He’s the most respectful colored person I ever saw and the only one I’d ever have around.”

Mrs. Buck paused for breath and then proceeded: “While you were off teaching to-day somebody Miss Ann called Cousin Betty Throckmorton came to call and brought two daughters and a grandchild. I was mighty sorry for them to miss you and I told them so. I think Mrs. Throckmorton rather thought I ought to have said I was sorry for you to miss her, but being as she had come to see you and not you to see her and being as you are a sight better looking than she is or her daughters or the grandchild, I put it the other way. Anyhow, 253 she was a very fine lady and couldn’t say enough in praise of some of our furniture.

“She asked me where the secretary in the parlor came from and when I told her it belonged to my mother’s side of the house—the Fairbankses—and came over on the third trip of the Mayflower she said no doubt she and I could claim relationship, as she, too, was a Fairbanks. And then she said to Miss Ann that people in the south paid so much more attention to relationship than they did in the north and no doubt she was as close to me as Miss Ann was to you.

“Then I got out that book your Grandmother Knight set such store by, with all of her family written down in it and a picture of the old original Fairbanks home, and Mrs. Throckmorton nearly fell over herself reading it and hunting out where she belonged in it and finally she found her line and then, sure enough, she and I are closer relations than you and Miss Ann. Then she called me Cousin Prudence and asked me to call her Cousin Betty. I’m afraid I can never get the courage to do that, but it does kind of tickle me for them to be claiming relationship with me too. We are the same folks we have always been.”

“So we are, Mumsy, but perhaps the other 254 fellow has had a change of heart. Does Cousin Ann like having so many callers?”

“Indeed she does, and she never stops telling them what a fine girl you are. Sometimes I can’t believe she is really talking about my little Judy, she makes you out so wonderful. Mrs. Throckmorton—Cousin Betty—said she had got a letter from Mrs. Robert Bucknor, written from Monte Carlo, telling all about the good times they are having. It seems that that Mildred has caught a real beau. Cousin Betty’s daughter said she hoped he’d be more faithful than Tom Harbison, and Cousin Betty hushed up. Evidently she didn’t want me to know about Tom Harbison—not that I want to know. This beau is a count and rich and middle aged. It looks as though it might be a match. All of the ladies, even Miss Ann, thought it would be a good thing if Mildred married rich and lived abroad. They didn’t want anything but good fortune for her, but I could tell they’d like to have her good fortune fall in foreign parts.

“At first Miss Ann was right stand-offish with Mrs. Throckmorton, but that lady went right up to her and kissed her and said, ‘See here, Cousin Ann, you might just as well be glad to see me, because I am very glad to see 255 you, and to see you looking so well and so comfortable and I’m also glad to see your pretty white hair and to know you’ve got some legs.’ And Miss Ann laughed and said, ‘Thank you, Cousin Betty,’ and then they began to visit as sweet as you please. Old Billy went out and made the colored chauffeur go back and see his house and of all the big talking you ever heard, that old man did the biggest. I came back to the pantry to get out a little wine and cake for the company and I could hear him just holding forth.”

“Poor old Uncle Billy! He is proud of having a house,” laughed Judith. “His turkey red curtains are up now and his geranium slips started. He has put on a fresh coat of whitewash, within and without, and his floor is scrubbed so clean you could really make up biscuit on it. It is gratifying, Mumsy, that we have been able to make two old people as happy as we have Cousin Ann and old Uncle Billy. I only hope Cousin Ann doesn’t bother you.”

“Lands sakes, child, she is a heap of company for me and she is a great help. I don’t see how such an old person can step around so lively. She stirred up a cake this morning. She says she has been clipping recipes out of 256 newspapers for years and years but they have always made company of her wherever she has visited before and she has never been able to try any of her recipes. Her cake has got a little sad streak in it, owing to the fire getting low while it was baking, but that wasn’t to say her fault altogether, as I told her I’d look after the fire while she picked out walnuts for the icing.

“We had a right good time though while the cake-making was going on and Mr. Big Josh Bucknor came to pass the time of day. He could not stop but a minute but he nearly split his sides laughing at Miss Ann in a big apron, turning her hand to cooking. She laughed, too, and made as if she was going to hit him with the rolling pin, like that woman in the newspaper named Mrs. Jiggs. Mr. Big Josh brought some fine fish as a present. He said he’d been fishing and had caught more than he could use.”

That evening, after the dishes were washed, Judith, instead of beginning on the photographic work as was her custom, sat silent with folded hands, her head resting against the back of the winged chair. Her eyes were closed and her face was tense.

“Child, you look so tired,” said Miss Ann. 257 “You do too much. I am afraid my being here puts more on you than you can stand.”

In all her many decades of visiting, that was the first time Miss Ann had ever suggested to a hostess that she might be troublesome. Judith insisted she was not tired and that Miss Ann was a help and no trouble, but the old lady could but see that there were violet shadows under the girl’s eyes and that the contour of her cheek was not so rounded as it had been in the summer.

That night, when Billy came to her room to see if she needed anything before retiring—an unfailing custom of the old man—Miss Ann was on the point of discussing with him the evident fatigue of their beloved young hostess, but before she could open the subject Billy said:

“Miss Ann, I done got a big favor ter ax you. I ain’t ’lowin’ ter imconvemience you none, but I air gonter go on a little trip. It air goin’ on ter fifty years sence I had a sho’ ’nuf holiday, bein’ as I ain’t never been ter say free ter leave you when we’ve been a visitin’ roun’, kase I been always kinder feard you mought need ol’ Billy whilst you wa’n’t ter say ’zactly at home, but somehows now you seem ter kinder b’long here with Miss Judy an’ 258 her maw an’ my feets air been eatchin’ so much lately th’ain’t nothin’ fer me ter do but follow the signs an’ go on a trip.”

“But, Billy—” began Miss Ann.

“Yassum, I ain’t gonter be gone long. It ain’t gonter be mo’n three or fo’ days, or maybe five or six, but anyhow I’s gonter be back here in three shakes er a dead sheep’s tail. I kin see, as well as you kin, that Miss Judy air kinder tuckered out what with teachin’ an’ servin’ up them suppers to the street cyar men. I’m a thinkin’ that when I goes on my trip I mought fin’ a good cook ter holp Miss Judy out. Her maw am p’intedly ’posed ter nigger gals, but she ain’t called on ter be. Me’n you knows by lookin’ on with one eye that Mrs. Buck air mo’ hindrance than help ter Miss Judy. You ain’t gonter put no bans on my goin’ air you, Miss Ann? Looks like it ain’t ’zactly grabby fer me ter git a holiday onct every fifty years.”

“Well, if—” Miss Ann tried again.

“Yassum, I done filled all the wood boxes in the house an’ on the po’ch. I done split up enough kindlin’ ter las’ a week. I done scrubbed the kitchen an’ cleaned out the cow shed an’ put fresh straw in Cupid and Puck’s stalls. I done pick a tu’key fer Miss Judy an’ blacked 259 the stove. I ain’t lef nothin’ undone, an’ she ain’t gonter have no trouble till ol’ Billy gits back. I done already ax her what she thinks ’bout my goin’ on a trip an’ she say fer me ter git a move on me ’kase I needs it an’ what’s mo’ she done rooted out’n the attic a top coat an’ a pair er boots an’ I’m a gonter go off dressed up as good as a corpse.”

So Billy departed on his trip. When he had been gone four days and no message from him had come, Miss Ann was plainly a little uneasy about the old man.

“You ain’t called on to be worried,” said Mrs. Buck. “That old man can take care of himself all right. I must say I never expected the time to come when I’d confess to missing a darkey, but Uncle Billy is a heap of help around the place. He saves Judy a lot of work—things she never would let me do. I certainly hope nothing has happened to him.”

Nothing had—at least nothing that his mistress or Mrs. Buck could have feared. When Judith went to the kitchen on Sunday morning, the one day she allowed herself to relax, she found the fire crackling in the stove and the kettle filled and ready to boil. Standing by the table, rolling out biscuit, was a small, old mulatto woman, wiry and erect. She was 260 dressed in a stiff, purple calico dress and on her head was a bandanna handkerchief, the ends tied in front and standing up like rabbit ears.

Uncle Billy looked at Judith and grinned sheepishly. “Miss Judy, this air Mandy!”

“How do you do, Aunt Mandy? I am so glad you have come to help me. You have come for that, have you not?”

The old woman continued to roll the dough and cut out the biscuit with a brisk motion, at the same time looking keenly at Judith.

“Yes, I reckon that’s what I come for mostly, and at the same time I come somewhat to be holped myself. As soon as I git these here biscuits in the oven I’ll tell you what Billy air too shamefaced to own up to.”

She whisked the biscuits into the oven and then proceeded, “Billy air kinder new to this business, but bein’ as it’s my fifth I’m kinder used to it. Billy an’ me done got ma’id yesterday.”

“Got what?”

“Ma’id! I’m his wedded wife. He done come down to Jefferson County courtin’, an’ bein’ as I done buried my fo’th jes’ las’ year I up’n says yes as quick as a flash. I reckon Billy’s been ’lowin’ that so long as he couldn’t be my fust, owin’ to delays an’ happenin’s, 261 he’d make out to be my las’. I been kinder expectin’ that Billy’d come along for fifty-odd years an’ every time I’d git a chance to git ma’id I’d kinder put it off, thinkin’ he mought turn up, an’ every time I’d bury a husband I’d say to myself, ‘Now maybe this time Billy’ll be comin’ along.’ I been namin’ my chilluns arfter him off an’ on. There’s Bill an’ Billy an’ Bildad an’ William an’ Willy an’ one er my gals is named Willymeeter. Of course I knowed he wa’ kinder ’sponsible fer Miss Ann, an’ I ain’t never blamed him none, but I sho’ wa’ glad ter see him when he come walkin’ in las’ Wednesday an’ jes’ tol’ me he wa’ a needin’ me an’ he had a home er his own with a po’ch an’ all. An’ so we got ma’id.”

Old Billy had realized his dream at last—a house he could call his own, with a porch and geraniums growing on it, and married to Mandy. It mattered not to him that he was her fifth venture in matrimony.

“Come next summer, we’ll have a box of portulac a bloomin’ befo’ the house,” he said to Judith. “I’m pretty nigh scairt ter be gittin’ so many blessings ter onct. Sometimes I kinder pinch myself ter see if I ain’t daid an’ gone ter Heaben.”