"
"Sophy," said the horror-struck Alicia, "that woman must be watched
until we can buy a percolater. Suppose she's got 'a ol' white
stockin' foot' of her own!"
Despite which there never was, never will be, such another cook as
Mary Magdalen. It is true she wasn't amenable to discipline, and
reason wasn't her guiding-lamp. And nothing--not bribes, threats,
entreaties, prayers, orders, commands, moral suasion--could break
her of doing just what she wanted to do just when and how she wanted
to do it. You'd be entertaining your dearest enemies, serene in the
consciousness that your house was a credit to your good management;
and behold, Mary Magdalen in the drawing-room door, with her wig
askew and her hands rolled in her apron:
"Oh, Miss Sophy!"
"Well?" say you, resignedly, with a feigned smile; "what is it, Mary
Magdalen?"
"Miss Sophy, you know we-all's sugah?"
"Yes."
"Wellum, Miss Sophy, 't ain't any."
"I have already ordered more, Mary Magdalen."
"An' you know ouah flouah, Miss Sophy?"
"I--"
"Us ain't got a Gawd's speck!"
Then she would beam upon the visitors, all of whom were known to
her.
"Howdy, Miss Sally! How you-all comin' on? Ah comin' 'round to see
de baby soon 's Ah gits chanst.
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