The bundle was done up in a handkerchief—not a large one at that—and it contained all of Joe’s worldly possessions. Jessie gave him the little bed-room off the kitchen, and there Joe established himself, to our great satisfaction. He was not less reticent than usual, but there was immense comfort to us, even in Joe’s silence. The only explanation that he ever gave as to his intentions was contained in the brief declaration:
“Yo’s no ’casion fur t’ worry yo’se’ves no mo’, chillen; I’se come ter tek holt.”
And take hold he did. Early and late the faithful black hands were toiling for the children of the man whom he had so devotedly loved.
On this particular morning Jessie and I were seated in the kitchen busily employed in doing some much-needed mending, when I dropped my work and said to Jessie: “I believe something is taking the chickens, Jessie.”
Jessie glanced at the garment that I had let fall, a torn little dress of Ralph’s. “Do you?” she said.
“Yes; I’m sure there are not so many as there should be.”
“Don’t you count them every night?”
“Yes, I do; but they should be counted oftener. At mid-day, too, I should say.” I submitted this proposition deferentially, but with a covert glance at the clock; it was nearly twelve, and I did so dislike mending.
“Very well,” Jessie said, “count them a dozen times a day if you think best, of course.”