"This is home," said Eleanor.

Aunt Basha observed, with the liking for magnificence of a servant
trained in a large house, the fine façade and the huge size of "home."
In a moment she was inside, and "young miss" was carefully escorting her
into a sunshiny big room, where a wood fire burned, and a bird sang, and
there were books and flowers.

"Wait here, Aunt Basha, dear," Eleanor said, "and I'll get Grandmother."
It was exactly like the loveliest of dreams, Aunt Basha told Jeems an
hour later. It could not possibly have been true, except that it was.
When "Grandmother" came in, slender and white-haired and a bit
breathless with this last surprise of a surprising granddaughter, Aunt
Basha stood and curtsied her stateliest.

Then suddenly she cried out, "Fo' God! Oh, my Miss Jinny!" and fell on
her knees.

Mrs. Cabell gazed down, startled. "Who is it? Oh, whom have you brought
me, Eleanor?" She bent to look more closely at Aunt Basha, kneeling,
speechless, tears streaming from the brave old eyes, holding up clasped
hand imploring. "It isn't--Oh, my dear, I believe it _is_ our own old
nurse, Basha, who took care of your father!"

"Yas'm. Yas, Miss Jinny," endorsed Aunt Basha, climbing to her feet.
"Yas, my Miss Jinny, bress de Lawd. It's Basha." She turned to the girl.
"Dis yer chile ain't nebber my young Marse Pendleton's chile!"

But it was; and there was explanation and laughter and tears, too, but