"I haven't always lived in Maryland, Miss Margaret," Aunt Cely began. "I was born in Figinny—in Goochland County, near Goochland Co't-'ouse. I belonged to the Davidsons. They was mighty fine people, the Davidsons was. They wa'n't no po' white trash, I tell you! Marse Tom Davidson had mo' niggers than anybody 'roun' there. You could n' step roun' in the back yard 'thout trompin' on a little nigger. And there wa'n't no end to the company they had. Yaas, 'm, the Davidsons was mighty fine people. I haven't got no 'casion to feel 'shamed of my white folks."

"But you were going to tell me about your baby," reminded Margaret. She did not care for the Davidsons.

"Yaas, 'm, I'm comin' to it. We jes' had one child, Joe and me. Her name was Cassie—Cass, we called her for short. Miss Margaret, Cass was a mighty pretty child. She looked jes' as pretty to me as yo' baby does to you, I reckon. Look lak the color don't make much difference to the mammy of a child. I was mons'us proud of her, and I useter dress her up in a little pink calico dress and ruffled white apron and set and look at her and think, 'Mammy'll work her black fingers to the bone, honey, befo' she'll let any harm come to you!'... But Mammy's fingers couldn't stand 'tween her and harm."

The voice stopped and she turned away, shaking her head, mournfully.

"Mammy Cely," said Margaret, softly, "if you belonged to the Davidsons, how did you happen to be with the De Jarnettes?"

"I'm jes' comin' to that. Look lak when I git to thinkin' of them old days I lose myself.... Well, when Cass was about nine years old, I reckon, word come one day to the cabins that Marse Tom had been killed,—throwed from his horse against a pile of rocks. We all thought a heap of Marse Tom. I don't believe there was a nigger on that place but felt they had lost their best frien' when he was gone,—but then we 'spected to go on jes' the same and work for old mistis. But one day jes' after the fun'al a man come out from Goochland Co't-'ouse and talked a long time to old mistis, and when he went away she look so white and sick it look lak she was gwineter die too.

"Miss Margaret, I reckon you know what it meant. Marse Tom wa'n't so rich after all and de likelies' of de niggers had to be sold to pay his debts.... Miss Margaret, I knowed I was one of de likelies'; and I tromped over to Marse Sam Dyer's on de farm j'inin' to see ef he would n' buy me. You see he owned Joe, my old man. I jes' got down on my knees and begged him fur the love of God not to let me be sold away from Joe. He says, 'Cely, I'd buy you in a minute ef I had the money, but I can't do it!'

"Then Joe, he says, 'Marse Sam, ef you can't buy Cely, will you let me go with her?' That was right hard on Marse Sam, 'cause Joe was born in the family, but he drawed a long breath and he says, 'Joe, I hate to let you go, but I can't stand between man and wife. Ef I can sell you to the man that buys Cely, I'll do it,' he says.

"But Miss Margaret, the worst thing 'bout slavery was that even a good man could n' always help the partin' of man and wife. Marse Tom never sold a nigger in his lifetime. I've seen more'n one nigger-trader ordered off the place! But then he never expected to die tell he was out of debt, and when he was dead old mistis could n' help it. They was boun' to be sold.... And then Marse Sam. He come down, and come down, and come down in his price for Joe, but the man that bought me didn't want him—at no price."

"Who was the man that bought you?"

"Major De Jarnette. You see, my young mistis, Miss Julia Davidson, was goin' to marry Major De Jarnette up here in Maryland, and she wrote to him wouldn't he buy me for her maid. Of course I'd rather go with her than be sold to anybody else. He wrote to her that he was willin' to buy me, but he didn't want the child—that a lady's maid ought not to have a child hangin' around her. Miss Julia she wrote to him that her Ma wouldn't never consent to our bein' separated, and so after some letters back and fo'th he agreed to buy us both and done so. I came up to Elmhurst with my Miss Julia when she was married—and Cass with me.

"Miss Margaret, I never felt easy 'bout it after I heared he didn't want Cass. I knew it would come! Well, we stayed there nearly a year befo' it did. Then one day not long befo' Marse Richard was born Cass come dancin' in the house where I was ironin' and she says, 'Mammy, am I pretty?'

"'Who told you you was pretty?' I says, settin' my iron down toler'ble hard.

"'The man in the house,' she says. 'He seen me when I was goin' along and he tuk holt of my curls and said I was a pretty little gal. Am I pretty, Mammy?' Miss Margaret, hit jes' seemed lak the heart inside of me was turnin' to stone. I knowed that man. He was a nigger-trader!

"I tuk Cass by the hand and walked her off to my house 'thout sayin' a word. Then I tuk the scissors and cut off all her curls, and made her put on her old blue cotton instead of her pink calico, and then I says, 'Now you jes' let me hear of you goin' up to the house ag'in when there's any men there and I lay I'll make you pretty!' Then I went and seen Miss Julia and told her I was sick and would she please to excuse me this evenin'. It wa'n't no lie, for ef ever I was sick in my life I was sick then. Then I went back to my house and shet the do' and waited. I knowed it would come.

"A little befo' sundown I heared somebody at the do' and Cass started to open it. I ketched her by the arm and I says, 'You go up in the lof'—quick! and don't you come down less 'n I tell you!' Then I opened the do' and sho 'nough there stood old Major De Jarnette and the nigger-trader. Major De Jarnette he says, 'Cely, where's Cass?'

"'Master,' I says, 'Cass is up in the lof', sick,—she can't come down, noway.'

"He lowed he'd see how sick she was, and then I called up, 'Cass, come here.'

"Cass come and stood lookin' at her bare feet and diggin' her toes in between the puncheons, and I declare to goodness, Miss Margaret, I didn't hardly believe it was the child myself. When I cut off her hair I didn't take no great pains, you may be sho', and now she done run her head in the cobwebs in the lof' tell her hair done look mo' lak ash color than black, and what with the old dress and the dirt streaked over her face where she been cryin', she certainly did look mo' lak po' white trash than a decent nigger child.

"I reckon the nigger-trader thought so too, for he tuk a good look at her and he says, 'This ain't the one I want. I couldn't sell her to nobody,' Miss Margaret, it jes' seem lak my heart had been standin' still and now it begun to bound. I thought I'd got her off, sho'. But what do you suppose that child done then? She looked up at him sorter sassy like and she says, 'I am the gal you said was pretty, but Mammy done cut off my curls.' Miss Margaret, as skeered as I was, I felt lak takin' that child and shakin' her good! Here she was in the worst peril a gal could ever be in and losin' her onlies' chance of gettin' out because she was afraid a nigger-trader would think she was ugly! I declare to goodness it does jes' look lak women was born fools anyway! Most of 'em would rather resk fallin' into the hands of the devil hisself than to resk a man's thinkin' they ain't pretty!

"I saw in a minute it was all up. The nigger-trader tuk another look at her, and he says, 'I made a mistake. This is the one.' Then he kinder chuckled to hisself and says, 'You're a cute one, anyway.' Then master he turned to me and says, 'Cely, I've sold Cass. Get her ready to go in the mornin'.'

"I knowed then that my onlies' hope was in him and I got down on my knees. When I stopped he says, 'Cely, get Cass ready to go with this man in the mornin'.' That was all. Then they went off. Cass went roun' cryin' kinder sof' like and I set down to think. I thought once I'd take her and we'd steal off in the dark, and hide daytimes and travel nights tell we got over the line, and maybe we would find some apples or something to live on. I thought the Lord wouldn't keer if I did steal ef it was to save my child. I got up and started to get things together. Then I heared the bayin' of old man Dawson's hounds, and I set down again.

"I thought once I'd go to Miss Julia, but when old Major De Jarnette had that look on his face there wa'n't anybody that dared to coax him—not even Miss Julia. Of course, it wa'n't worth while to go to the neighbors. Major De Jarnette owned us and he had a right in the eyes of the law to sell us, together or separate. The neighbors couldn't go ag'in' the law to save the partin' of mother and child. But, Miss Margaret, ef I'd been a white woman I would have taken that child and gone!"

Margaret looked at her with startled eyes, but the old woman went on.

"When I set down there I says to myself, 'I will have my child! There ain't nobody can take her away from me!' But when I'd think of one way to save her it seemed lak there was a stone wall set right down in front of me. Then when I'd turn another way, there was that same stone wall, and I couldn't do anything but beat my head ag'in' it. I thought and thought and thought tell the fire went out and Cass had gone to sleep on the flo', and at last I jes' says out loud, 'It ain't no use! I've got it to stand! There ain't nobody can help me!'

"Honey, it seemed lak I couldn't git my breath. I got up and went to the do' and looked out. The stars was shinin' kinder happy like, and when I looked up at the house I could see the lights all glimmerin' and hear the tinkle of Miss Julia's piano. It seemed lak they wan't no mis'ry in the world, cep'n right here in this little cabin. 'What made the difference,' I said, shakin' my fist at the stars and the lights. 'What did the Lord mean by givin' me a white woman's heart, and then givin' a white man power to sell my child away from me?' He didn't know! He didn't keer!

"Honey, the Lord seemed a long way off then. Seem lak He was where there was light and music and frien's too, and didn't know my heart was breakin'. How could He know?... Jes' then some words come into my mind jes' lak somebody had spoke 'em to me. I had heared 'em down in old Figinny. 'For God so loved the world that He gave His only son to die—' I couldn't remember the rest, but I jes' hung on to that much, and said it over and over. 'God so loved the world—that He give His only son—His only son—to die! God loved us so ... His only son!' Why, He did know!

"I shet the do' and went and layed down on the flo' by Cass. I didn't pray. There wa'n't nothin' to pray for. I knowed it couldn' be helped. I jes' said, 'Oh, Lord! Lord! Lord! Lord!' Miss Margaret, ef ever you've talked to the Lord without usin' any words you'll know what I mean. Ef you haven't, I couldn't make you onderstand. 'Twas jes' lak Cass comin' and puttin' her head down in my lap and sayin', 'Mammy! Mammy!' and then I'd put my hand on her head and say, 'Mammy knows!' and that was all.

"Well, after a while I got up and waked Cass, and the child looked at me with her big starin' eyes like she was 'feared of me. But I set down in the chimly corner and tuk her on my lap and then she was wide awake. I told her about how she had been sold and how it wa'n't likely she would ever see Mammy any mo'. But I says, 'Honey, ef you try to be good, and never steal or tell lies, or do anything that you know is wrong—anything, honey, no matter what it is—there 's a place we'll git to after a while where there can't nobody part us.' And, Miss Margaret, the child stop her cryin' and look up at me, and she say, 'Where is it, Mammy? Le' 's go now.' And I says, 'It's heaven, child!' and then she begun to cry, 'cause heaven seems a long way off, you know.

"Well, after a while I put her to bed, and then I got her clo'es ready and made 'em in a little bun'le and then I got to stud'in' 'bout who would wash her clo'es and mend 'em, and it jes' 'peared lak I couldn't stand it noway. While I was gittin' the things together I come across her big rag doll where she had jes' put it to bed—(Cass was always a mighty hand for dolls),—and I put it in the bun'le. I thought it would help her maybe to git through the first few nights. Then I laid out her clo'es, and darned her stockin's, and blacked her shoes, and when there wa'n't another thing I could do I laid down by her and tuk her in my arms like I useter when she was a baby, and laid there the blessed night, never once closin' my eyes ... Miss Margaret, don't cry, child! I haven't shed a tear sence that night.

"Well, in the mornin' I got her ready, and when I seed 'em comin' I tuk her in my arms and looked in her face fur the las' time, and laid her little head on this old breas' where it had laid so many times, and give her one las' kiss, and then I opened the do'.

"'She's ready,' I says, puttin' her outside. And then I shet the do'. I heared the overseer—it was him that had come with the man—say, 'Well, she don't seem to take on much,' and the nigger-trader, he says, 'Naw, they don't have no feelin' for their chil'n.'"

She stopped. Apparently the story was at an end.

"Oh, Mammy Cely!" cried Margaret, wringing her hands, "don't tell me you never saw her any more!"

"Miss Margaret, I never laid eyes on her from that day to this. I don't know where they took her or what they did with her any more than ef the ground had opened and swallowed her up."

"Oh, I am glad, glad that never can be done again!" cried Margaret, vehemently. "It was a wicked thing to put so much power in any man's hands!"

She looked down at her own sleeping child with a sudden sinking of the heart, and then into the impassive face of the black woman.

"Oh, Mammy Cely! I think God has forgotten us!"

"Honey, don't say that. He don't forget!" Then, modifying this statement, "But it certainly do look lak His remembry is a heap better for men than what it is for women."