“I ain’t got nowhar yit,” Popsy said.
“Would you like to live in the log cabin where you lived fifty-five years ago?” Gaitskill inquired.
“Whar I married at? Whar me an’ Ca’lline live happy till all us boys went off to de war? Whar you an’ me an’ Marse Jimmy an’ little Hinry useter roast goobers in de hot ash?” Popsy asked eagerly.
“The very same,” Gaitskill answered softly. “With the big pecan tree still standing before it, and the big stone door-step where we boys cracked the nuts.”
Popsy Spout rose to his feet and bowed like some aged patriarch standing in the presence of a king. His high, quavering voice sobbed like the wailing of a child:
“Marse Tommy, de Gaitskill fambly is de top of de heap fer kindness an’ goodness to dis pore ole nigger!”
He sank back into his chair, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“I guess so,” Gaitskill said, and his voice was so soft that each word was like a caress. “We all remember Henry.”
“Dat’s so, suh,” Popsy said, suddenly straightening his bent and quivering shoulders. “Marse Jimmy is told me frequent ’bout you an’ him gwine up dar an’ findin’ Hinry under dat sycamo’ tree whar I buried him at. I’s glad you fotch him back home an’ buried him wid his own folks.”
“Yes, we’ll walk out to his grave together some day,” Gaitskill murmured.