There came a sound at the door; not a knock, but a rub across the panels. This too was alarming. Meadows kept the door well bolted, and called fearfully, “Who’s there?”
“It’s ony me—Powlyne,” answered a shrill voice. “I’s come wid de wines; Miss S’breeny, she sont me.”
The tones were unmistakably feminine; Meadows drew back the bolt and peeped out. A negro girl of twelve stood there, bearing a tray which held a decanter and wineglass; her wool was braided in little tails, which stood out like short quills; her one garment was a calico dress, whose abbreviated skirt left her bare legs visible from the knees down-ward.
“Do you want to come in?” said Meadows. “I can take it.” And she stretched out her hand for the tray.
“Miss S’breeny she done tole me to put ‘em myse’f on de little table close ter der bed,” answered Powlyne, craning her neck to look into the room.
Meadows opened the door a little wider, and Powlyne performed her office. Seeing that she was very small and slight, the English girl recovered courage.
“I suppose you live here?” she suggested.
“Yass, ’m.”
“And when there isn’t any one else ’andy, they send you?”
“Dey sonds me when dey wanster, I’s Miss S’breeny’s maid,” answered Powlyne, digging her bare heel into the matting.