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Updated: May 14, 2025
The sun slipped low in the heavens. Out of the purple haze to the south, a wagon from Staunton way, drawn by oxen and piled high with forage, came up a side street. The ancient negro who drove was singing, "I saw de beam in my sistah's eye, Cyarn see de beam in mine! Yo'd better lef' yo' sistah's doah, An' keep yo' own doah fine! An' I had er mighty battle lak Jacob an' de angel "
Her black hair, straightened by main force of arm, had been set again in stiff, corrugated waves of extreme fashion, but her broad placid face was both kind and serene. "I'se Lucy," she stated, thoroughly at her ease. "An' dis," she reached an arm behind her, pulling forth a girl at least ten shades lighter and thirty-five shades thinner, "is mah sistah's onliest gal-chil', Letty-Lou.
The Reverend Hayward had given a half discernible start and an exclamation had fallen from his lips. "What say?" repeated his companion. "I knows de sistah ve'y well, she bein' a membah of my flock." "Well, I been gwine in comp'ny wit dat ooman fu' de longes'. You ain't nevah tasted none o' huh cookin', has you?" "I has 'sperienced de sistah's puffo'mances in dat line."
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