"Tildy, I mout'ent o' grieved 'bout de money, but now dey'll bury me jes like a common nigger—out in de woods."
"Maybe not, sumpin' mite turn up dat'll set things right," she said, comfortingly.
The old woman talked with great effort, but she seemed interested in this one particular subject.
"Tildy, I ain't afeard ter die, and I'se lived out my time, but we-all's folks wus buried 'spectable—buried in de grabe-yard at home. One cornder wus cut off for we-all in deir buryin' groun'; my ole man, he's buried dar, and Jerry, my son, he's buried dar, and our white people thought a sight o' we-all. Dey'ed want me sent right dar."
"Whar dey-all—your white folks?" asked Tildy, wistfully.
"All daid but one—my chile, Miss Cheraky. I wus her black mammy, and she lub'd me—if she was here I'd" She broke down, crying pitifully—lifting her arms caressingly, as though a baby were in them.
Cherokee knew now that she would recognize her, so she came up close to her.
"Yes, Mammy, you are right, our loved ones should rest together, I will see that you go back home."
