"He's done gone," she sharply answered, for by now her heart was beating with strong resentment against entire mankind. "What you want 'im fer?"
"Nothing, so long as he isn't here," Brent turned away.
But she was following. After all, he did come to the little girl's relief—even though his intimacy with juleps had spoiled the offer. So she called after him in a kinder voice:
"I never said he warn't comin' back! What you want 'im fer, Marse Brent? Is you sick?"
"No," he gave a short laugh. "It's this way: He couldn't use me on account of my drinking—even little as it now is; and I wanted to ask how long a fellow must be entirely free from it to make his skin a good grafting proposition. If he thinks Mesmie can wait that long, I'll stop to-night and get ready. That's all. Tell him, will you, Aunt Timmie? And let me know? I'll be up stairs pretty soon."
A soft light crept into her face.
"We don' need it now, chile," she murmured. "We'se gwine git some nice, soft lady-like skin. De doctor's done gone arter her!"
"You don't mean Miss Jane!" he turned furiously upon her. "She shan't do it, I tell you!"
"Since when's you had de right to say what she kin do an' what she cyarn' do, I'd lak to know? But," she began to chuckle, "as you 'pears so upsot 'bout it, I'll tell you he ain' gwine arter Miss Jane. Now, better go home, an' not talk so loud!"
Embarrassed, he started toward the house.