"Miss Edie, we'se all a leanin' on you. We'se nothin' but vines a climbin' up de orange-bush. If you goes down, we all does. And now, Miss Edie, I'd swallow pison for you. Won't you take a cup o' tea for de sake of ole Hannibal? 'Cause your sweet face looks so pinched, honey, dat I feels dat my ole black heart's ready to bust;" and Hannibal, feeling that the limit of his restraint was reached, retreated precipitately to the kitchen.
The appeal, with its element of deep affection, was more needed by
Edith in her half-paralyzed state than even the material refreshment.
She sat up instantly, and drank the tea and wine, and ate a little of
the toast. Then taking the cup and glass into the kitchen:
"There," she said, "see, I've drunk every drop. So don't worry about me any more, my poor old Hannibal, but go to bed, after your hard day's work."
But Hannibal would not venture out of his dark corner, but muttered, brokenly:
"Lor—bress—you—Miss Edie—you'se an angel—I'se be better soon—I'se got—de hiccups."
Edith thought it kindness to leave the old man to recover his self-control in his own time and way, so she said:
"Good-night, my faithful old friend. You're worth your weight in gold."
Meantime, Laura had helped Mrs. Allen to her room but now she came running down to Edith, with new trouble in her face, saying:
"Mother's crying so, I can't do anything with her."
At first Mrs. Allen's heart seemed hardened against her erring child, but on reaching her room she stood a few moments irresolutely, then went to a drawer, took out an old faded picture-case and opened it. From it Zell smiled out upon her, a little, dimpled baby. Then, as if by a sudden impulse rare to her, she pressed her lips against the unconscious face, and threw herself into her low chair, sobbing so violently that Laura became alarmed.