Thus it was that--without any loss of self-respect upon the one side, or any forgetfulness upon the other of that immovable line between black and white which had been part of the immemorial creed of both--Mary Ellen and Aunt Lucy, being companionless, sometimes drifted together in the way of things.
On the morning following Aunt Lucy's devotional exercises that good soul seemed to be altogether happy and contented, and without any doubts as to her future welfare.

She busied herself with the preparation of the food for the chickens, meantime half unconsciously humming a song in reminiscent minor.

"Custard pie--custard pie," she sang, softly, yet unctuously, as she stirred and mingled the materials before her; "custard pie--_custard_ pie.

Hope ter eat hit twell I die--twell I die." Mary Ellen was out in the open air, bonnetless and all a-blow.

It was a glorious, sunny day, the air charged with some essence of vital stimulus.
Tall and shapely, radiant, not yet twenty-three years of age, and mistress of earth's best blessing, perfect health--how could Mary Ellen be sad?
All the earth and sky, and the little twittering ground birds, and the bustling fowls, forbade it.