CHAPTER XLIX
It was a very trivial and unimportant thing, to Jemima's thinking, which presently lifted Kate out of her languor into action once more. Big Liza, entering timidly one morning, as she did many times in the day, to gaze with miserable eyes at the figure on the bed, murmured to Jemima: "They's a message come fum that 'ooman Mahaly, down in the village, sayin' she's dyin', and wants to see the Madam. She 'lows she cain't die in peace 'thout'n she sees Miss Kate."
"Of course that's impossible," said Jemima in the same low tone. "Send word that we're very sorry. See that she has whatever she needs. If necessary, I'll go myself."
"Did you say she was dying?" asked an unexpected voice from the bed.
"Yais'm, Miss Kate! but don't you keer, honey. Tain't nothin but that mulatter 'ooman, Mahaly—You 'members about her!" she added scornfully.—Very little had passed among her "white folks" that was unknown to the sovereign of the kitchen.
To the amaze of both, Kate slipped without apparent effort out of the bed where she had lain for weeks. "Where are my clothes?" she demanded.
Jemima ran to her with a cry of protest. "Mother, be careful! What, you aren't thinking of going to see her? You can't—you're not strong enough!"
"Mahaly must not die before I speak with her."
"Then," said Jemima calmly, "I'll have her brought to you."
"A dying woman? Jemmy, don't be silly!" Kate spoke with an asperity that brought a wide grin to Big Liza's face, because it sounded as though the Madam were come back again.