"That child's done stood all she ken now," she was saying to herself. "Pretty soon she gwineter break down--that she is!" Aloud she remarked, respectfully, "Yaas, 'm, 'tis mighty bad 'bout Mr. Victor bein' called away right now. Marse Richard was tellin' me about it.... But _nem_mine, honey, we gwineter s'prise him when he gits home, ain't we? We gwineter have the party all over and ever'body gone home but us and de li'l' gen'l'man." She was talking to her as one speaks to a frightened child. "There!... There!... Mammy Cely gwineter take keer of you, honey! Don't you be skeered. She done tuk keer of a heap er ladies in her day. She knows jes' what to do. You needn't to worry. She gwineter stay right here.... Yo' maid gone too? Well, I do say! These here triflin' Washington niggers ain't no 'count. _No_ 'm, they ain't! Well, _nem_mine! I gwineter be yo' maid now--Marse Richard say so--and yo' mammy too. Then befo' I go away I'll git you somebody ef I has to peruse this town. Yaas, 'm, I will so! I wouldn't stand, honey. Set down now." She asked the frightened girl a few questions, putting in a running commentary of soothing, confidence-inspiring remarks, and Margaret found herself settling down in profound relief upon the broad foundation of her practical knowledge. "And you got all the little clo's ready?... Well, I do say! Ain't they scrumptious! Humph! Jes' look at the 'shorance of them little shearts! Honey, they look lak they was holdin' out they arms for a man!... But I declar this here highfalutin' lacy skeart do sho'ly belong to a little lady! Well, whichever it is, honey, it's gwineter be yourn, and when you feel that little chile on yo' breas' and hol' them little hands in yourn, you gwineter furgit all 'bout the pain and the sufferin'--and the loneliness--" The rain clouds had been gathering all day. They could be held back no longer. Slowly, drops began to fall--the big portentous ones that come before the storm. If this new maid had come in cold and business-like she could have withstood it, but this was the mother-note she had always lacked in her life song. A convulsive sob broke from her overburdened heart, hearing which and recognizing the futility of further words, Mammy Cely opened her arms. "Come here, lamb!" And Margaret fell, weeping, into them. * * * * * That night she went down into the valley of the shadow of death, and the black woman was her rod and staff. CHAPTER VII TRIED AS BY FIRE It was long months before Margaret De Jarnette looked into her husband's face. Before that time Washington's squares and circles and triangles--those blessed breathing spots--had blossomed out from hyacinths to flaunting salvias,--a stately, gorgeous, lengthening procession proclaiming to those who understand the language or who care to hear, "He hath made all things beautiful in its time."