“Yes, you have a bonnet. Isn’t this your bonnet?” the master said, in his quiet, inquiring tone, holding up before their bulging eyes the dilapidated wreck that they had not dared look at in all the months they had buried it out of sight. Ma’y Ann steadfastly turned her face away from the ghost. She bit her lips, but uttered not a word.
“No, Marse Jim—I—I—er, Marse Jim, I feel sick, sick,” stammered Marthy, as she trembled so she almost fell.
“Sick! Give me your hand.” She quickly recovered, and clasped the tawny paws behind her back. “Give me your hand; let me feel your pulse.” Reluctantly she proffered the hand. “There, now,” he said, letting the limp little hand fall to her side. “You feel chilly, don’t you? Go sit down on that step.” Marthy sidled slowly away, tears welling her eyes and her whole frame shaken with suppressed sobs.
“Stop dat cryin’; nobody ain’t doin’ nuthin’ to you; stop dat foolishness and listen to what Marse Jim is a sayin’ to you two onreasonable rapscallions,” said Charlotte, in a severe tone. She held Mary Ann (who was making ready to fly at the first opportunity) by the back of her neckband.
“Let Martha alone, Charlotte, she is weakening; we’ll talk about the bonnet to Mary Ann, she knows.”
“No, Marse Jim, I ’clar I never see dat bonnet in all my life; I ’clar I never did. I ’clar——”
“Hush,” said the master in a stern voice, “let me ask a question or two, and only answer what I ask.”
“Tell de truth, too,” ejaculated Charlotte, “onless you want de debbil to kotch you.”
“Give me your hand.” The child clutched at her cotton skirt with both hands. He reached out, quietly and forcibly took one skinny little black paw in his firm grasp. Drawing the shrinking, reluctant child toward him, he fixed his eyes upon her averted face. “Now look me right in the eye; everybody does that to people who are talking to them; look me in the eye. What made you hide that bonnet? Look at me when I am talking to you.”
“I didn’t neber see dat bonnet b’fore. I ’clar——”