"He's wuss'n sick! He's homesick."
"Can't you quiet him some way—by rocking him or something of that sort?" He had a vague idea that rocking was a panacea for all childish ills.
"Marse Richard, that chile done pass the cradle age. And look lak he don't crave nobody's lap but his ma's."
"Why don't you tell him stories? You know how to quiet a child."
"I done tole him all I know," said Mammy Cely,—which was not at all the truth, for she had an unlimited supply and had purposely withheld them,—"but he don't seem to take no intrus. He's in that ongodly state of mind he don' keer what turnt the robin's breas' red! No, sir! He wants his ma!"
"Well, tell him he can't have her,—that she is sick and can't come."
"My Lord, Marse Richard! I done tole him that fifty times! But he don't accep' the pronouncement. He say he's bleeged to see his ma."
Mr. De Jarnette scowled.
"It is a strange thing to me that you can't quiet a five-year old child," he said, looking very straight at her.
Mammy Cely returned the look unflinchingly. Anybody that sought to overawe her had entered upon a large contract.