“I hated to see them badgered,” she replied. “I dropped a few tears over Martha myself—perhaps,” with a smile, “she thought I was scared too.”
Charlotte came in and picked up the wreck. “Miss Liza, I’se goin’ to take dis bonnet, jist as it is, all tousled up and mashed and I’m gwine to make Ma’y Ann war it one day and Marthy Ann de next clean till dey gits sick o’ bonnets; dey shall war it till de chillen come home Sat-day. I ’spose dere’ll be sum laffin’ done when de chillen sees Ma’y Ann wid dat bonnet tied on her haid.”
Another winter had come and gone, and June was again filling the old plantation with its intoxicating odors and delicious melody. The little room on the back porch was darkened by a heavy curtain at the only window. A table drawn up by the rough wooden bed, made gay by a patchwork quilt, held a few medicine bottles, a cup and spoon; also a tumbler of pink and white roses. The quiet mistress moved about noiselessly, occasionally putting her cool hand upon the brow of the little sick negro, or gently stroking the thin, black fingers that lay listlessly upon the bright coverlet.
“Miss Liza, whar Ma’y Ann?” The lady turned her face from the questioner. After a moment’s hesitation she replied, cheerfully: “She’s all right, Martha.”
“Miss Liza, whar is she? Whar Ma’y Ann?”
“She’s down by the quarters now,” was the unsatisfactory response. The weary patient closed her eyes for a few moments, but it was evident that with the first consciousness, following a severe illness, the child’s thoughts turned to her old companion.
“She ain’t bin here sence I was tuk sick.” After a pause, “I want ter talk to Ma’y Ann ’bout sumthin’.”
“Tell me,” said the mistress, soothingly, “what it was you wanted to see Mary for.”