Beside a bed of
sweet sage she faltered an instant and hung back. "Aunt Ailsey," she called
tremulously, "I want to speak to you, Aunt Ailsey." She stepped upon the
smooth round stone which served for a doorstep and looked into the room.
"It's me, Aunt Ailsey! It's Betty Ambler," she said.
A slow shuffling began inside the cabin, and an old negro woman hobbled
presently to the daylight and stood peering from under her hollowed palm.
She was palsied with age and blear-eyed with trouble, and time had ironed
all the kink out of the thin gray locks that straggled across her brow. She
peered dimly at the child as one who looks from a great distance.
"I lay dat's one er dese yer ole hoot owls," she muttered querulously, "en
ef'n 'tis, he des es well be a-hootin' along home, caze I ain' gwine be
pestered wid his pranks. Dar ain' but one kind er somebody es will sass you
at yo' ve'y do,' en dat's a hoot owl es is done loss count er de time er
day--"
"I ain't an owl, Aunt Ailsey," meekly broke in Betty, "an' I ain't hootin'
at you--"
Aunt Ailsey reached out and touched her hair. "You ain' none er Marse
Peyton's chile," she said. "I'se done knowed de Amblers sence de fu'st one
er dem wuz riz, en dar ain' never been a'er Ambler wid a carrot haid--"
The red ran from Betty's curls into her face, but she smiled politely as
she followed Aunt Ailsey into the cabin and sat down in a split-bottomed
chair upon the hearth.
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