The door opened, and a picture out of a storybook stood framed and smiling.  One seldom sees today in the North the genuine old-fashioned negro-woman.  A sample was here in Lance’s doorway.  A bandanna of red and yellow made a turban for her head; a clean brownish calico dress stood crisply about a solid and waistless figure, and a fresh white apron covered it voluminously in front; a folded white handkerchief lay, fichu-wise, around the creases of a fat black neck; a basket covered with a cloth was on her arm.  She stood and smiled as if to give the treat time to have its effect on Lance.  “Look who’s here!” was in large print all over her.  And she radiated peace and good-will.

Lance was on his feet with a shout.  “Bless your fat heart, Aunt Basha—­I’m glad to see you,” he flung at her, and seized the basket and slung it half across the room to a sofa with a casualness, alarming to Aunt Basha—­christened Bathsheba seventy-five years ago, but “rightly known,” she had so instructed Lance, as “Aunt Basha.”

“Young marse, don’ you ruinate the washin’, please sir,” she adjured in liquid tones.

“Never you mind.  It’s the last one you’ll do for me,” retorted Lance.  “Did I tell you you couldn’t have the honor of washing for me anymore, Aunt Basha?”

Aunt Basha was wreathed in smiles.

“Yassir, young marse.  You tole me dat mo’n tree times befo’, a’ready, sir.”

“Well—­it’s final this time.  Can’t stand your prices.  I can’t stand your exorbitant prices.  Now what do you have the heart to charge for dusting off those three old shirts and two and a half collars?  Hey?”

Aunt Basha, entirely serene, was enjoying the game.  “What does I charges, sir?  Fo’ dat wash, which you slung ’round acrost de room, sir?  Well, sir, young marse, I charges fo’ dollars ‘n sev’nty fo’ cents, sir, dis week.  Fo’ dat wash.”

Lance let loose a howl and flung himself into his chair as if prostrated, long legs out and arms hanging to the floor.  Aunt Basha shook with laughter.  This was a splendid joke and she never, never tired of it.  “You see!” he threw out, between gasps.  “Look at that! Fo’ dollars ’n sev’nty fo’ cents.”  He sat up suddenly and pointed a big finger, “Aunt Basha,” he whispered, “somebody’s been kidding you.  Somebody’s lied.  This palatial apartment, much as it looks like it, is not the home of John D. Rockefeller.”  He sprung up, drew an imaginary mantle about him, grasped one elbow with the other hand, dropped his head into the free palm and was Cassius or Hamlet or Faust—­all one to Aunt Basha.  His left eyebrow screwed up and his right down, and he glowered.  “List to her,” he began, and shot out a hand, immediately to replace it where it was most needed, under his elbow.  “But list, ye Heavens and protect the lamb from this ravening wolf.  She chargeth—­oh high Heavens above!—­she expecteth me to pay”—­he gulped sobs—­“the extortioner, the she-wolf—­expecteth me to pay her—­fo’ dollars ’n sev’nty fo’ cents!”