The woman had seized Sophy by the wrist and dragged her to the window. There was a haggard look of desperation in her face akin to that which Hamlin had once seen in her sister's eyes on the boat, as she said huskily: “I did not know YOU were here. I came to see the woman who had painted Mr. Hamlin's portrait. I did not know it was YOU. Listen! Quick! answer me one question. Tell me—I implore you—for the sake of the mother who bore us both!—tell me—is this the man for whom you left home?”
“No! No! A hundred times no!”
Then there was a silence. Mr. Hamlin from the bedroom heard no more.
An hour later, when the two women opened the studio door, pale but composed, they were met by the anxious and tearful face of Aunt Chloe.
“Lawdy Gawd, Missy,—but dey done gone!—bofe of 'em!”
“Who is gone?” demanded Sophy, as the woman beside her trembled and grew paler still.
“Marse Jack and dat fool nigger, Hannibal.”
“Mr. Hamlin gone?” repeated Sophy incredulously. “When? Where?”
“Jess now—on de down boat. Sudden business. Didn't like to disturb yo' and yo' friend. Said he'd write.”
“But he was ill—almost helpless,” gasped Sophy.