“Of course, I have. I have noticed nothing else. Why, she is dressed as fine as a fiddle. She is 'taking notice.' She 'll be giving Old Caesar a successor. Then what will you do? I thought that fat darky I have seen going in at the back gate with a silk hat and a long-tailed coat looked like a preacher. You 'd better look out for him. You know she was always stuck on preachers. He is a preacher, sure.” “He is,” observed the small boy on the floor. “That 's the Reverend Mr. Johnson. And, oh! He certainly can blow beautiful smoke-rings. He can blow a whole dozen and make 'em go through each other. You just ought to see him, papa.” His father glanced casually at the cigar box on the table. “I think I will some day,” said he, half grimly. “I never would know her for the same person. Why, she is so changed!” pursued Mrs. Graeme. “She goes out half the time, and this morning she was so cross! She says she is as good as I am if she is black. She is getting like these others up here.” Mr. Graeme flung down the paper he was reading. “It is these Northern negroes who have upset her, and the fools like the editor of that paper who have upset them.” Mrs. Graeme looked reflective. “That preacher has been coming here a good deal lately. I wonder if that could have anything to do with it!” she said, slowly. Her husband sniffed. “I will find out.” At that moment the door opened and in walked Mam' Lyddy and a small boy in all the glory of five years, and all the pride of his first pair of breeches. The old woman's face wore an expression of glumness wholly new to her, and Mr. Graeme's mouth tightened. His wife had only time to whisper: “Now, don't you say a word to her.” But she was too late. Mam' Lyddy's expression drove him to disobedience. He gave her a keen glance, and then said, half jocularly: “Old woman, what is the matter with you lately!” Mam' Lyddy did not answer immediately. She looked away, then said: “Wid me? Ain't nuttin' de matter wid me.” “Oh, yes, there is. What is it? Do you want to go home?” She appeared half startled for an instant, then answered more sharply: “Nor, I don't wan' go home. I ain' got no home to go to.” “Oh, yes, you have. Well, what is the matter? Out with it. Have you lost any money!” “Nor, I ain' lost no money 's _I_ knows on.” “Been playing lottery?” “I don' know what dat is.” “You don't, ah! Well, you would if you had been in Wall Street lately. Well, what is the matter? You are going around here as glum as a meat-axe. Something 's up. What is it?” “Ain' nothin' de matter wid _me_.” She glanced away under her master's half amused, half disdainful glance, then added half surlily: “I wants _rec'nition_.” “Want recognition? What do you mean?” “Dat 's what _we_ wants,” declared the old woman, acquiring courage. Graeme laughed. “What is recognition?” “I don't know what 't is edzac'ly, but dat's what we _wants_. You all 's got it and you got to gi' it to _us_.”