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Updated: June 15, 2025
Delphy's authority, rooted in superior knowledge, appeared to be unshakable, but she made a last desperate effort. "Suppose he should get sick without me, Delphy?" Delphy positively snorted. "Ef you wanter raise dis yer chile, Miss Euginny," she replied, "you'd des better let me alont.
So when Eugenia spoke, after a placid pause, it was merely to suggest that the baby's head was hanging too far over Delphy's knee. "That can't be healthful, Delphy," she said, half timidly. Delphy grunted and adjusted matters with a protest. "Hit's de way yourn done hung en Miss Meely's done hung befo' you," she muttered.
And with these thoughts come, as you listen, other thoughts of flying angels and shining crowns, and wide-opened gates of pearl. A sweetness mixed with pain that is, the feeling which Mammy Delphy's singing brings to you, though you could not describe it, perhaps, if you tried at least that's the feeling it brings to me.
But as she finished Dudley strolled in and stood beaming down upon his offspring as it lay, round and pinkly impressive, in Delphy's lap. "Fine boy, eh, Delphy?" he inquired proudly. "Dat 'tis, suh," responded Delphy heartily, "an' he's des de spit er you dis we'y minit." The following morning Dudley went to Washington for several days, and Eugenia was left with Miss Chris and the child.
The two stood together in her thoughts; she could not separate them the child was but a smaller, a closer, a dearer Dudley a Dudley of her dreams and visions, the ideal ending to life's realities. As she sat beside the window, her eyes wandering from the sunset to the baby asleep in Delphy's lap, she wondered that she had never before suffered this incipient thrill of nervous fear.
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