“Den she ain’t gone?” cried Aunt Minervy Ann. “Well, I don’t want de place less’n she goes. I ain’t gwine ter run my color out’n no job ef I kin he’p it. We got ’nuff ter contend wid des dry so.” Then she turned and looked in the kitchen. “Ain’t dat Julie Myrick?” she asked. “How you know me?” cried the cook. “I b’lieve in my soul dat’s Miss ’Nervy Ann Perdue!” With that Aunt Minervy Ann went into the kitchen, and the two old acquaintances exchanged reminiscences for a quarter of an hour. After awhile she came back in the sitting-room, stared at us with a half-indignant, half-quizzical expression on her face, and then suddenly collapsed, falling on the floor near a couch, and laughing as only an old-time negro can laugh. Then she sat bolt upright, and indignation, feigned or real, swept the smiles from her countenance, as if they had been suddenly wiped out with a sponge. “You know what you got in dat kitchen dar? You ain’t got nothin’ in de worl’ in dar but a Injun merlatter; dat zackly what you got. I know’d her daddy and I know’d her mammy. Ol’ one-legged Billy Myrick wuz her daddy, an’ he wuz one part white an’ one part nigger, an’ one part Injun. Don’t tell me ’bout dem kind er tribes. Dey ain’t no good in um. Hamp’ll tell you dat hisse’f, an’ he b’longed ter de Myrick ’state. Merlatter is bad ’nuff by itse’f, but when you put Injun wid it—well, you may hunt high an’ you may hunt low, but you can’t git no wuss mixtry dan dat. I tell you right now,” Aunt Minervy Ann went on, “I never did see but one merlatter dat wuz wuff a pinch er snuff, an’ she wuz so nigh white dat de ol’ boy hisse’f couldn’t ’a’ tol’ de difffunce. Seem like you must ’a’ knowed Mary Ellen Tatum, suh?” she suggested, appealing to my memory. I had heard the name somehow and somewhere, but it was as vague in my recollection as a dream.