A shy “good-mornin”' had passed between Mandy Calline and Zekle, and he sauntered up beside her, taking the pitcher, and as they stepped over the bars Father Tyler, hospitably inclined, said: “Take breakfus with us, Zekle? I lay Malviny 'll hev ernuff cooked ter give yer er bite.” With assumed hesitation Zekle accepted the invitation, and he and Mandy Calline passed on to the house, he carefully carrying the pitcher of milk. He cleared his throat a time or two, and remarked again on the beauty of the morning, to which she rather nervously assented; then suddenly, the words seemingly shot out of him: “Mandy Calline, I'm goin' ter ask th' ole folks ter-day. What yer say?” Mandy Calline was red as a turkey-cock, to which was now added a nervous confusion which bade fair to overwhelm her. “It's too soon, Zekle. Whyn't yer wait er while?” she replied, tremblingly. “No, 'tain't too soon,” he answered, promptly. “I want it all done 'n' over with, then I sh'll feel mo' like ye b'long ter me. I'm goin' ter ask 'em ter-day; yer needn't say not. I know you're erfeared o' th' teasin'. But ye needn't min' that; ye won't hev ter put up wi' it long; fer th' way I mean ter work on that house ter git it done--well, 'twon't be long befo' it 'll be ready ter put my wife in it.” “Well, Zekle,” said the girl, hesitatingly, “ef ye'd ruther ask 'em ter-day, why--I guess es how--ye mought es well do it. But let's go 'n' tell gra'mammy now; somehow I'd ruther she knowed it fust.” “We will,” replied Zekle, promptly. * * * * * Mother Tyler was putting breakfast on the table. She suddenly paused and listened. Something was the matter. There were cries that betokened trouble. She hastened to the house, followed her husband and the boys on to gra'mammy's room, and there on the bed, in peaceful contrast to all this wailing and sorrow, lay dear old gra'mammy, dead. The happiest smile glorified the kind old withered face, and the wrinkled hands lay crossed and still on her breast. She had truly met the husband of her youth, and God had opened in death the eyes so darkened in life. My Fifth in Mammy By William Ludwell Sheppard I never knew a time in which I did not know Mammy. She was simply a part of my consciousness; it seems to me now a more vivid one in my earliest years than that of the existence of my parents. We five, though instructed by an elder sister in the rudiments of learning, spent many more of our waking hours with Mammy; and whilst we drew knowledge from one source, we derived the greater part of our pleasure from the other--that is, outside of our playmates.