His fading eyes followed the line of chairs, upon one of which stood Miss Liz. She had drawn the musty covering from an overhanging portrait—her dead sister—and to this she was murmuring. Her black silk dress and lace kerchief seemed to make her a part of the gallery; and her thin hand resting on the frame, with its forefinger unconsciously pointing upward, was as frail and wax-like as that other hand into which the old negro had, one twilit evening, long ago, laid a rose—when, unobserved and shaken by convulsive sobs, he tiptoed in to pray at the side of "Ole Miss'" bier.
Carefully now he stepped back, drawing the door softly to, and leaving the room to its undisturbed communion of whispering spirits.
"What are you crying for?" the Colonel asked, as he finally came up with the julep.
"I isn't cryin', Marse John. Dat bad eye of mine hu'ts me some, dat's all."
"I'll have you see the doctor. Did you find Miss Liz?"
"Yas, sah, I foun' her."
"And what did she say?"
"She never say nuthin' to me," Zack answered in his low, musical voice. "An' I never axed her nuthin', neither. She wuz standin' on a cheer in de long room, whisperin' to Ole Miss' pictur, Marse John; an' I couldn' poke no julep up at her den!"
The Colonel bowed his head. After a prolonged silence he drew a deep breath, then drained the goblet thirstily to the very end, taking a piece of ice into his mouth and moodily crunching it. But his eyes were not raised; his thoughts had not been diverted.
Zack tiptoed away and disappeared behind the house. Brent respectfully waited for the spell to pass; and when, at last, the old gentleman did look up, his eyes, like Zack's, were moist.