“‘Lil chile Dory, Shaky’s lil lam’,
      Mudder’s gone to heaven,
      Shaky leff behime
      To care for lil chile Dory, Shaky’s lil lam’.’

Doan’ you ‘member it, honey,—­an’ doan’ you member me?  I’m Shaky,—­I is.”

There was a touching pathos in Jakey’s voice as he sang, and it was intensified when he asked, “Doan’ you ’member me, honey?”

Both Mr. Mason and Jack turned their heads aside to hide the moisture in their eyes, while Eloise’s tears fell fast as she watched the strange pair,—­the wrinkled old negro and the white-faced woman, in whom a wonderful transformation seemed to be taking place.  With the first sound of the weird melody and the words “Lil chile Dory, Shaky’s lil lam’,” she leaned forward and seemed to be either listening intently or trying to recall something which came and went, and which she threw out her hands to retain.  As the singing went on the expression of her face changed from one of painful thought to one of perfect peace and quiet, and when it ceased and Jakey appealed lo her memory, she answered him, “Yes, Shaky, I remember.”  Then to Eloise she said, “The lullaby of my childhood, which has rung in my ears for years.  He used to want me to sing a negro melody to the people, and said it made them cry.  That’s because I wanted to cry, as I do now, and can’t.  I believe I must have sung it that last night in Los Angeles before everything grew dark.”

Moving closer to Jakey she laid her head upon his arm and whispered to him, “Sing it again, Shaky.  The tightness across the top of my head is giving way.  It has ached so long.”

Jake began the song again, his voice more tremulous than before, while Amy’s hands tightened on his arm, and her head sank lower on his breast.  As he sang he jogged the cradle with one foot, and kept time with the other and a swaying motion of his body, which brought Amy almost across his lap.  When she lifted up her head there were tears in her eyes, and they ran at last like rivers down her cheeks, while a storm of hysterical sobs shook her frame and brought Eloise to her.

“Don’t cry so,” she said.  “You frighten me.”

Amy put her aside, and answered, “I must cry; it cools my brain.  There are oceans yet to come,—­all the pent-up tears of the years—­since he told me you were dead.  I am so glad to cry.”

For some moments she wept on, until Jakey began to soothe her with his “Doan’ cry no mo’, honey.  Summat has done happened you bad, but it’s done gone now, an’ we’re all here,—­me an’ I do’ know her name, but she’s you uns, an’ Mas’r Mason an’ de oder gemman.  We’re all here, an’ de light is breakin’.  Doan’ you feel it, honey?”

“Yes, I feel it,” she said, lifting up her head and wiping away her tears.  “The light is breaking; my head is better.  This is the old home.  How did we get here?”