The black woman shook her head. There had been no secrecy with her about the will. Her relations with the mother and child had been too close for Margaret to have any hesitation about telling her, and her own need of comfort too urgent for her to have been prudent had she had. She must talk to somebody. So Mammy Cely knew the whole story, and was wrung between sympathy for Margaret and loyalty to "Marse Richard."
"The Lord knows, Miss Margaret!" she said, shaking her head. "It beats me!"
She turned away and began arranging the shades for the night, muttering below her breath as she did so, "Hit's the wolf blood! That's what it is!"
"What did you say, Mammy Cely?"
The old woman made no reply.
"Mammy Cely! what did you say?"
"Miss Margaret,—I don't want to tell you nothin' about it—maybe it ain't so anyway."
"Maybe what isn't so?" Margaret's curiosity was now thoroughly aroused.
"Why,—'bout the Jarnettes' havin' wolf hearts. That's what they used to say. I don't know 'm. But I reckon it's so. I thought sho' Marse Richard was gwineter 'scape it. He ain' never showed that strain befo'. But look lak it's a curse. They can't git shet of it. Hit's there. Fire can't burn it and water can't squinch it! Honey ... it was Marse Richard's daddy wha' sold my little Cass away from me."
"Your baby?" cried Margaret in horror. "Sold your baby?"