Mighty bad sort o' feelin', when a pusson ain't right shore 'bout they soul.

An' when I has to pray erlone, I kain't never be right shore!" Mary Ellen rose and went to her room, returning with her guitar.

She seated herself upon the side of the bed near Aunt Lucy--an act which would have been impossible of belief back in old Virginia--and touched a few low chords.

"Listen, Aunt Lucy," she said; "I will play and you may sing.

That will make you feel better, I think." It was only from a perfect understanding of the negro character that this proposal could come, and only a perfect dignity could carry it out with grace; yet there, beneath the floor of the wide prairie sea, these strange exercises were carried on, the low throbbing of the strings according with the quavering minors of the old-time hymns, until Aunt Lucy wiped her eyes and smiled.
"Thank yer.