"Don't call, Mammy; I don't want to go. Miss Patty kept me running all day and I'm tired. I'll stay here with you and read." "Dar are de books, den; but you mostly knows 'em by heart." "I suppose I do," Hertha said drearily. She picked up _The Life of Abraham Lincoln_. Almost all the books in the Williams household had been bought of agents and paid for on the installment plan. There were volumes of universal knowledge and other volumes of the world's best literature--all eminently instructive, but none calculated to soothe an aching heart. Turning over the pages idly, looking at a picture here, reading a paragraph there, Hertha occupied a few minutes and then went to where her mother sat in her big, comfortable chair. Leaning over, she put her arms around the old woman's neck. "Um, um," the mother crooned, patting the girl's hands. "Sing for me, Mammy." "You must git inter my lap, den. Reckon it'll hold a lil' flower like you." "This is better." The girl knelt so that her head came on her mother's breast. "Now sing." "What'll I sing fer yer?" "Oh, anything. Sing 'Nobody knows de trouble I's seen.'" "Laws, chile, does yer feel as bad as all dat! Poor lil' lily. An' you was lookin' a rosebud dis mornin'. Dey cer'enly don' know much 'bout carin' fer my flower up dar." Then, smoothing the girl's hair with her strong hand, she sang: "Nobody knows de trouble I's seen, Nobody knows but Jesus. Nobody knows de trouble I's seen, Glory Hallelujah." The people at the great house were nervous, tiring; but mammy was restful like the deep, lower waters of a stream. Her mellow voice sang on: "I know de Lawd, I know de Lawd, I know de Lawd has laid his hands on me." "De Lawd" came out in three long, rolling syllables, descending from the high call, "I know." Hertha found herself breathing slowly, quietly, her mother's hand smoothing her forehead and soft, curling hair. "I was a wandering sheep----" Mammy had slipped into a hymn that belonged to the church where for many years she had worshiped, proud in being the wife of the holy man who occupied the preacher's desk. She had sung all her children to sleep with this hymn. "I was a wandering sheep, I did not love the fold, I did not love my shepherd's voice, I would not be controlled. I was a wayward child----" Hertha rose from her knees. Quietly going into her mother's room, she turned down the bed, a task she performed every night for Miss Patty and her guests. "Honey," her mother called, "what yer up ter?" "Nothing," Hertha answered, "only fixing to do something for you and Ellen, and now I'm going to bed myself."