“Of what month?” was the astonishing next question.
“August, Miss Helen.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she returned, apparently gratified that this was still August. “Tell Buck to bring the car around at ten o’clock,” she said.
“She’s come out of her swoon, Buck, and wants you to have the car ready at ten,” was the news Maria carried back to the kitchen.
“Whar is we gwine?” he asked.
“I dunno. But ef I knows Miss Helen like I thinks I does, they ain’t gwine to be no grass growin’ under your feet no time soon.”
She was polishing Mrs. Cutter’s pumps during this conversation. Now she started back with them. She was about to lay her hand upon the knob of Helen’s door when she stiffened, turned her head to one side and listened. The sound of a voice issued through this door, one voice, Helen’s. She was alone in there with her God, but it was obvious to Maria that this was not any woman’s praying voice. Neither were the astounding words she heard suitable for prayer.
The fat old negress bent, laid her ear against the keyhole, rolled her eyes and listened. Then, as if she could not bear the amazement of what she heard, she flew back to the kitchen, caught hold of the astonished Buck and moaned: “Oh, my Lord; oh, my Lord! And her a white ’oman!”
“What’s de matter wid you, gal?” he demanded, shaking himself from her grasp and staring at her.
She refused to tell him. She implied that such information as she had might cost them both their innocent lives, if she should repeat it.