It was singular that the first spark of hope was kindled by the words of the colored servant, Dinah.
“What makes you tink de boy am dead?” she asked, a moment after the woful words of her mistress.
“Didn’t you hear him cry out just now?”
“No; I didn’t hear him nor did you either; dat warn’t de voice ob Avon.”
“How can you know that?” asked Mrs. Shirril, beginning to feel anew hope within her.
“Lor’ o’ massy! habent I heerd de voice ob dat younker offen ’nough to know it ’mong ten fousand? Habent I heerd him yell, too? he neber does it in dat style; dat war an Injin, and de reason dat he screeched out in dat onmarciful way war ’cause he got in de path ob Avon and de boy plugged him.”
“By gracious, Dinah! I believe you’re right!” was the exclamation of Captain Shirril, so joyous over the rebound from despair that he was ready to dance a breakdown in the middle of the floor.
“Course I is right, ’cause I allers is right.”
“I suppose there is some reason in that, but please keep quiet––both of you, for a few minutes, while I listen further.”