At this point in the death of John Hardaway, Rabb, the nigger, came out of her corner, and ceased trembling. She was hungry and began heating some soup in a saucepan.
“What are you doing?” John Hardaway inquired abruptly.
“I’s hungry, sah.”
“Then get out of here—get into the kitchen.”
“Yes, sah,” but she did not move.
John Hardaway breathed heavily, a mist went over his eyes—presently, after interminable years, he lifted his lids. Rabb was now slowly sipping the steaming soup.
“You damned nigger!”
She got up from her haunches hurriedly—placing her hand in front of her, backing toward the door.
“Little one, I have taken you on my knee——”
Rabb crept back—she came up to the bed.