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The child was only doing me a favor." Mrs. Myrover was an invalid, and opposition or irritation of any kind brought on nervous paroxysms that made her miserable, and made life a burden to the rest of the household; so that Mary seldom crossed her whims. She did not bring Sophy to the house again, nor did Sophy again offer her services as porter.
The child was only doing me a favor." Mrs. Myrover was an invalid, and opposition or irritation of any kind brought on nervous paroxysms that made her miserable, and made life a burden to the rest of the household, so that Mary seldom crossed her whims. She did not bring Sophy to the house again, nor did Sophy again offer her services as porter.
A colored woman, whom she did not know, came to the door. "Wat yer want, chile?" she inquired. "Kin I see Miss Ma'y?" asked Sophy timidly. "I don't know, honey. Ole Miss Myrover say she don't want no cullud folks roun' de house endyoin' dis fun'al. I 'll look an' see if she 's roun' de front room, whar de co'pse is.
Mary Myrover belonged to one of the proudest of the old families. Her ancestors had been people of distinction in Virginia before a collateral branch of the main stock had settled in North Carolina. Before the war, they had been able to live up to their pedigree; but the war brought sad changes.
When the war was over, the remnant of the family found itself involved in the common ruin, more deeply involved, indeed, than some others; for Colonel Myrover had believed in the ultimate triumph of his cause, and had invested most of his wealth in Confederate bonds, which were now only so much waste paper. There had been a little left. Mrs.
She had the bundle in her hand when Sophy came up. "Lemme tote yo' bundle fer yer, Miss Ma'y?" she asked eagerly. "I'm gwine yo' way." "Thank you, Sophy," was the reply. "I'll be glad if you will." Sophy followed the teacher at a respectful distance. When they reached Miss Myrover's home Sophy carried the bundle to the doorstep, where Miss Myrover took it and thanked her. Mrs.
And though she was a woman of sentiment and capable of deep feeling, her training had been such that she hardly expected to find in those of darker hue than herself the same susceptibility varying in degree, perhaps, but yet the same in kind that gave to her own life the alternations of feeling that made it most worth living. Once Miss Myrover wished to carry home a parcel of books.
Myrover peered around the kitchen, and caught sight of Sophy. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "I I'm-m waitin' ter see de cook, ma'am," stammered Sophy. "The cook isn't here now. I don't know where she is. Besides, my daughter is to be buried to-day, and I won't have any one visiting the servants until the funeral is over.
They knew the teacher was loved by the pupils, and felt that sincere respect from the humble would be a worthy tribute to the proudest. But Mrs. Myrover was obdurate. "They had my daughter when she was alive," she said, "and they 've killed her. But she 's mine now, and I won't have them come near her. I don't want one of them at the funeral or anywhere around."
And though she was a woman of sentiment and capable of deep feeling, her training had been such that she hardly expected to find in those of darker hue than herself the same susceptibility varying in degree, perhaps, but yet the same in kind that gave to her own life the alternations of feeling that made it most worth living. Once Miss Myrover wished to carry home a parcel of books.
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