“Now, young marse, yo’ll be comfo’ble fo’ de night, an’ airly ter-morrer mornin’, fo’ ole mist’ess wake up. I’ll yun down yere an’ git yo’ breakfas’ yeddy. Good-night, young marse.”
“Good-night. But how will you get into the house without disturbing the family?”
“Oh, I got de key ob de ole mist’ess’s yoom, wot open on de piazza. I allers comes in an’ out ob dat do’, an’ not de one wot opens on to de parlor. Good-night, sah.”
When Martha had left the cabin Harcourt started up and followed her.
“Wot de matter, young marse?” she inquired, turning back when she heard him.
“Do not tell your mistress that I have returned. Wait until I go to the house.”
“Course I won’t, young marse. It would mak’ her too res’less ’til she seed yo’,” answered Martha, and she turned again and hurried up the hill.
Harcourt stood looking around him on the night scene, and meditating on all that he had heard.
The March wind was still blowing, driving ragged black clouds across the expanse of sky above, and swaying the pine trees on the top of the hills around.
Was he glad or sorry that his mother was an honored guest at Lone Lodge, humored in the delusion that repossessed her of all her lost treasures of husband and children, home and wealth, and made her completely happy?