“Ole hyah, whut make yo’ hade so bal’?
I thank Gord ben butt ’gin de wall!
Ole ark a-movin’, movin’, chillun—
Ole ark a-movin’, I thank Gord!”
Before Roden could say anything, she rose and put aside her spinning-wheel, holding out to him her long shapely hand, which was covered with tan as with a brown glove to within about an inch of her homespun sleeve. “Good-night,” she said; “I’m sleepy. Father won’t be here now till tuh-morrer. I s’pec’ he slept at Cyarver’s. Everything’s ready—your barth an’ everything.”
Thus dismissed, Roden took himself off to bed. As he dropped to sleep to the tune of “Ole ark a-movin’,” he was conscious of uncomfortable memories concerning haunted rooms in old Virginian mansions. Not that he believed in ghosts—Heaven forbid!—but some one might—some little nigger, you know—might play one a trick.
He was roused suddenly and unpleasantly by three solemn raps on the door at his bed’s head.
“Well—what is it?” he said, in an unnecessarily loud tone.
“’Tis me—Aun’ Tishy,” replied an unmistakable voice. “Please come to de do’, sur, jess a minute.”
He answered this appeal, opening the door cautiously an inch or two, whereupon she thrust into his hands a little white bundle.