“Gwine away dis mornin’, young mist’ess? I’s orful sorry to year it, an’ I’se orful busy, long o’ de breakfas’, too, dough dere ain’t mo’ dan one-quarter ob de people in de house as dere was in de winter, neider. Still, breakfas’ is breakfas’, an’ it has fo’ to be got,” said Lucy, with a succession of old country courtesies, as she stood respectfully before the lady. “I am sorry to part with you, too,” Roma replied. “An’ young mist’ess, I do fank yo’ so much fo’ dat same gif’ yo’ gib me. I ain’t had no sich a gif’ sence ebber I lef’ de ole Snake in ye ole times ’fo’ de wo’, I ain’t, fo’ de trufe; an’ I fank yo’, young mist’ess, fo’ dat same fibe-dollar gol’ piece.” “You are very welcome; but the ‘Snake,’ did you say?” “De ole Sarpint—yes, mist’ess.” “What old Serpent?” inquired Roma, for though she knew very well what Lucy meant, having heard from Tom that he and his “mammy” had come from the Isle of Storms, yet she wished to draw the woman out, to make an opening by which she might naturally disclose her own connection with that place, which she had not wished to do until now, when she was about to leave Washington. “De islan’, young mist’ess, w’ere de fambly ob de Guyon libbed ebber sence de ole times ’fo’ de wo.” “Did you live with the Guyons?” “Lor’, yes, young mist’ess; I ’longed to dem. Did yo’ know ’em, young mist’ess?” “Very slightly, I regret to say, though my dear mother, who died when I was a babe, was Romaine Guyon, the sister of Henry Guyon, who died three years ago.” Lucy’s eyes opened to their widest extent, and for a moment she seemed deprived of the power of speech, and then she exclaimed: “Now de Lor’ hab mercy on my po’ ole soul! Young mist’ess, yo’ ain’t nebber de darter ob Miss Yomaine, wot married dat young man f’om de Wes’, named F’onde?” “Yes, I am her daughter.” “Well, Lor’, I might ’a’ knowed it by de likeness, well as de manners—so I might. To fink ob meetin’ ob yo’ yere, in dis bressed house, in dis furrin city ob Washington! Well, wunners will nebber cease! An’ jes’ as I hab foun’ yo’ out yo’s gwine to leabe!” And here Lucy put her apron up to her eyes and sobbed aloud. “See here, I did not tell you this to distress you, but to open a way for better days to come. I know that many of you elderly colored people who came to the city to live and find work are disappointed, either in work or wages, or in the ability of adapting yourselves to the new circumstances.” “Wot dat yo’ say, young mist’ess? Please say it ober ag’in. I doane quite take it all in.” “I meant that some of you come to the city and don’t find what you want, and would rather go back to the country, if you could.” “Dat’s so! Lor’, ’tain’t ’cause people ain’t good to me, ’cause dey is. But—no—’tain’t ’cause dey doane gib good wages, ’cause dey does; but, honey, it’s f’eedom one way, an’ not f’eedom ’nudder way.” “What do you mean by that, Lucy?”