“Stop, look at me; don’t look at Martha, she’s better.” The child’s eyes dropped. “Don’t look at the floor, look me in the eye.”
“Marse Jim, slap her; make her look at you.”
“Be quiet, Charlotte; she’s going to tell, I want to help her,” replied the imperturbable inquisitor in his blandest tones. Still holding the reluctant hand and drawing the figure more closely to him, he said, “You say you never saw this bonnet? How came it in your bed?”
There was a long pause. The little negro at last gathered herself up, and, with a gleam of inspiration, exclaimed: “Marse Jim, de rats put it dar—de rats runs all over dat floor nights. Me and Marthy Ann jist hears ’em jist toting things all around. Rats put it dar, Marse Jim, big rats.”
“Dat’s a lie,” said Charlotte, positively. “Nary rat on dat floor. Marse Jim, you jist foolin’ way your time on dese niggers.”
The baffled master turned toward the crouching figure on the steps. She was still trembling, her face buried in her hands. He saw she was ready to confess, but he was determined Mary Ann should acknowledge also.
“Have you a mammy, Mary Ann?” he inquired.
“No, Marse Jim; I ain’t got no mammy; I ain’t never had no mammy, and my daddy, he’s daid, and I ain’t——”
“Hush, I didn’t ask all that. If you haven’t a mammy there’s no one to care if you die. I am sure I don’t want little girls round the house that steal and lie. Nobody else would have you; nobody would buy you, and I can’t keep you here. It’s come to a pretty pass when a lady can’t lay her bonnet on the bed without you two little imps taking it and hiding it for months, and lying about it right straight along. You have no mammy to cry for you, and I don’t want you, and Miss Liza don’t want you. What can be done with you?”