"More trouble," she muttered. "What can come now?"
Paul understood, rather from the expression of her face than a comprehension of her words, that she was startled.
"Very good news," he said. "The lady much happy now."
"Happy!" she repeated. "Who is that from?"
"From him—from madame's own son!"
She only looked incredulous; she was so stunned by suffering that her mind could not readily receive any new impression.
"I haven't any son," she said; "my son is dead."
The boy glanced anxiously toward Jube, and the old negro felt bound to offer his assistance, although sadly at a loss to remember a single English word by which matters might be explained.
"No dead, lady!" he exclaimed; "bery live, Masser Rice; yes, certainement; very much so."
The old woman gave him a wild look, snatched the letter from Paul's hand, and tore it open, while the three stood gazing at her in astonishment.