“Lord a mighty, Miz Agnes, I ain’t seen this dress since my Lucy was a baby. That was going on fifty years, now, I reckon.”
“Gracie, It’s very kind of you to let us use it for Grace.”
“Ain’t no matter. It’s just sitting in the box with all the kids’ things. They done all moved out and on to their own lives. My Lucy – she never got married, so she had no use for these things. And you done named your baby for me, Miz Agnes. Never done had a mother name her baby after me.”
“You did a good job, Gracie. You saved my life.”
“Did nothing of the kind. I’m not gone to take credit. You done it all yourself. Now let’s take this dress and put it on the baby. Go on, do it yourself.”
Little Grace howled a screechy protest at being imprisoned in the pink cotton – her first dress in the two weeks since she opened her eyes.
“Gracie, I’m just getting her all upset.”
“Here, Miz Agnes, you let me help.” Gracie had the baby in the dress in nothing flat – and a few velvety words, the baby’s crying quieted to a murmur.
“How’d you do it, Gracie? She just howls in my lap.”
“That’s why I’m the midwife, Miz Agnes, and you’re the math whiz.”
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