The old woman straightened her back, and for a moment her eyes looked into mine. I had often tried to draw from her something of her earlier life, but she had always evaded my questions. Marny had told me that his attempts had at first been equally disappointing. "Body as ole's me, suh, seen a plenty o' people." Then her eyes sought the canvas again. After a moment's pause she said, as if to herself: "You's de real quality, chile, dat you is; eve'y spec an' spinch o' ye." I tried again. "Does it look like anybody you ever saw, Aunt Chloe?" "It do an' it don't," she answered critically. "De feet is like hern, but de eyes ain't." "Who?" "Oh, Miss Nannie." And she leaned again on her broom and looked down on the floor. I heaped up a little pile of pigments on one corner of my palette and flattened them for a high light on a fold in the satin gown. "Who was Miss Nannie?" I asked carelessly. I was afraid the thread would break if I pulled too hard. "One o' my chillen, honey." A peculiar softness came into her voice. "Tell me about her. It will help me get her eyes right, so you can remember her better. They don't look human enough to me anyhow" (this last to myself). "Where did she live?" "Where dey all live--down in de big house. She warn't Marse Henry's real chile, but she come o' de blood. She didn't hab dem kind o' shoes on her footses when I fust see her, but she wore 'em when she lef' me. Dat she did." Her voice rose suddenly and her eyes brightened. "An' dem ain't nothin' to de way dey shined. I ain't never seen no satin slippers shine like dem slippers; dey was jes' ablaze!" I worked on in silence. Marny had cautioned me not to be too curious. Some day she might open her heart and tell me wonderful stories of her earlier life, but I must not appear too anxious. She had become rather suspicious of strangers since she had moved North and lost track of her own people, Marny had said. Aunt Chloe picked up her pail and began moving some easels into a far corner of my studio and piling the chairs in a heap. This done, she stopped again and stood behind me, looking intently at the canvas over my shoulder. "My! My! ain't dat de ve'y image of dat frock? I kin see it now jes' as Miss Nannie come down de stairs. But you got to put dat gold chain on it 'fore it gits to be de ve'y 'spress image. I had it roun' my own neck once; I know jes' how it looked." I laid down my palette, and picking up a piece of chalk asked her to describe it so that I could make an outline.