"That will do—" interrupted Mr. De Jarnette, curtly.
"Scuse me, Marse Richard," Mammy Cely returned, humbly, "I didn't mean nothin'—"
"Yes, I know. You didn't mean anything except to say exactly what you wanted to say. And you've said it now. So go on!... Tell him I will be there after a little," he added as she left the room.
He felt that it was a weakness in him to go. He had told Philip that he must never send for him again. If he went now he would probably be expected to do so every night, and that he certainly should not do. But for the life of him he could not refuse the child's request. Philip's tyranny was so affectionate, so gentle, the flattery of it was so insidious that it was simply irresistible. Besides,—there was something in what Mammy Cely had said.
"Well, Philip, they tell me you've got balled up in your devotions," he said, sitting down by the little white bed.
"Sir?"
"Couldn't you say your prayers to Mammy Cely?"
"No, sir, I—I can't say 'em very good—to any—black person." In the next room Mammy Cely was chuckling to herself.
He did not seem very particular about saying them to any white person. He talked instead about all the things he could think of to ward off the evil hour of going to sleep. And Richard, his heart strangely soft toward this mite of humanity who wanted him and called for him, defied all the rules of hygiene demanding early hours and let him talk. Mammy Cely was gone, having petitioned to go down to "Sist' Dicey's" on an errand. It was her policy to leave uncle and child together as much as possible at this hour.
At length Mr. De Jarnette said firmly, "Now, Philip, you really must go to sleep."