“In the back building, or in the garret?”
“No, sah! Dey put her in bed in her own bressed ole yoom—de parlor bedyoom, w’at opens offen de drawin’-yoom on one side an’ de back piazza on de t’oder! Yes, sah, dey put her dere, an’ it were jus’ as she lef’ it free years ago. Same flowered chintz bed curt’ins, an’ same windy curt’ins. Yes, an’ same rag carpet as I helped to make myself! Same corner cupboard, an’ same armchair wid same patchwork cushions on it. Yes, sah, it were. An’ dey put de ole madam in it, jus’ de same as if she had nebber lef’ it. Yes, sah, I did ax Miss Mar’get, wot is a werry nice young w’ite gal, how it war, an’ she tell me her mudder like dat yoom so w’en she fus’ see it she wouldn’ hab nuffin change’ into it, but kep’ it for comp’ny jus’ so. An’ dey put ole mist’ess inter it. Now wot does yo’ tink ob dat fo’ de Wyn’ops?”
“It was very, very kind; still, I don’t like it.”
“W’y? Yo’ ought ter like it, young marse. Yo’ oughtn’ ter let pwide come in yere. An’ dey sent fo’ Dr. Wall to ’tend her, and arterward Dr. Lat’rop, f’om Logwood. An’ dere war me s’eepin’ on a little mattrass on de flo’ ’fo’ de fire, like I used to do w’enebber de ole madam was poorly, an’ wanted ob me. Oh, it war like de good ole times, it war! An’ de ole madam got perfec’ly well an’ happy—well, dat is ’cept fo’ one ’lusion she has on to her min’.”
“Delusion?” inquired Harcourt uneasily.
“Yes, sah. Dat’s wot de Wyn’ops call it—’lusion. An’ it’s dat ’lusion wot makes her so happy.”
“What is it?” demanded Harcourt anxiously.
“Oh, young marse! I can’t help larfing an’ cryin’ bofe w’en I fink ob it. Dat feber ob hers it wipe out all de sorrows an’ sufferin’s as my ole mist’ess eber had in her life. It wipe out de bloody wah, an’ de deaf ob de ole marse, an ’de young ge’man an’ young ladies, an’ de sale ob de house an’ lan’, an’ de po’ libin’ in de log cabin, an’ eberyt’ing. W’en ole mist’ess come out ob dat feber, an’ wake up in her ole yoom, she t’ought how she had nebber lef’ it. She t’ought de ole marse an’ de young chillun was all libin’, an’—an’ she t’ought dat all de Wyn’ops in de house war her own comp’ny.”
“Insane! Oh, my poor mother!” groaned Harcourt.
“Doane take it dat way, young marse! De ole madam is sensible as a judge in eberyt’ing else but dat ’lusion, an’ dat ’lusion do make her so happy yo’ oughtn’ ter begrudge it to her. An’ de Wyn’ops, dey do humor her into it, an’ dey tell me ebery day not fo’ de worl’ to counterdick her.”