With a cry she sprang to her feet; the things to be done in this awful situation mapped themselves with lightning swiftness before her brain; she started the fire to blazing, with chips and more wood that somehow was already there. Then she opened the lunch she had been thoughtful enough to bring; there was chicken, and crackers, and bread. She seized a skillet, warmed the food, hurried back to the bed, and fed the woman as though she had been a baby. Soon she thought she could see the influence of food and warmth; but it hurt her to see in the face no indication of consciousness; there was a blank stare that showed no hope of recognition. As she laid the patient back upon the pillow of straw there was a sound at the door, a sound as of some one knocking the mud from clumsy shoes. A colored woman stepped in. “How you do, Aunt Judy?” “Don’t disturb her now, she is very weak,” warned Cherokee. The visitor looked somewhat shocked to see a white lady sitting with Aunt Judy’s hand in hers, softly rubbing it. “What’s ailin’ her?” she questioned in a whisper, “we-all ain’t hearn nothin’ at all.” “I came and found her almost dead with hunger, and she is being terribly neglected.” “Well! fo’ de lawd, we-all ain’t hearn nary, single word! I ’lowed she was ’bout as common; course I know de ole ’oman bin ailin’ all de year, but I didn’t know she was down. I wish we had ha’ knowed it, we-all would a comed up and holped.” “It is not too late yet,” said Cherokee, gently. “Yes um, we all likes Aunt Judy, she’s a good ole ’oman, I thought Jim was here wid her. Don’t know who he is? Jim is her gran’son, a mighty shiftless, wuthless chap, but I thought arter she bin so good to him he’d a stayed wid her when she got down. But I’ll stay and do all I kin.” Cherokee thanked her gravely, gratefully. The darkey went on whispering: “De ole ’oman bin mighty ’stressed ’bout dyin’. She didn’t mind so much the dyin’ ez she wanted to be kyaried to de ole plantation to be buried ’long wid her folks. Dat’s more’n ten or ’leven miles, and she knowd dey wouldn’t haul her dat fur--’spec’ly ef de weather wus bad. I ’spec worrin’ got her down.” Cherokee told the visitor to try and arouse her, now that she had had time to rest after her meal. She took up one of her worn brown hands. “How do you feel, Aunt Judy?” “Porely, porely,” she stammered almost inaudibly. “Why didn’t you let we-all know?” “Thar warn’t nobody to sen’ ’roun’.” “Whars Jim?” the visitor enquired. Her face gloomed sadly. “Law, hunny, he took all de money Mas’r left me, and runned away.” She looked up with tears in her eyes. “Tildy, I mout’ent o’ grieved ’bout de money, but now dey’ll bury me jes like a common nigger--out in de woods.” “Maybe not, sumpin’ mite turn up dat’ll set things right,” she said, comfortingly. The old woman talked with great effort, but she seemed interested in this one particular subject.