Martha, true to her word, had come very early in the morning, before her mistress would be likely to wake and want her services, and finding that her young master still slept, she had forborne to disturb him, but had gone quietly to work to prepare his morning meal, which she had placed before the fire to be kept hot until he should rise and require it, while she herself hurried back to Lone Lodge to attend upon her mistress.
Harcourt placed his breakfast on the table and sat down to it.
While he was slowly sipping his coffee he heard rapid, scuttling footsteps tearing through the brushwood toward the cabin, and the next moment the door was pushed open and Martha ran in.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, out of breath, and stopping short on seeing Harcourt. “So yo’s up, young marse. Hopes yo’ had a good night’s rest, sah.”
“The best I have had for many a day, Martha, thank you,” he replied.
“See dat now! Comin’ home, dat’s wot it is; natyve air, an’ dat. ’Scuse me, young marse, an’ let me sit down, wiv yo’ ’mission. I’s sort o’ out o’ breaf, yunnin’ so fas’,” panted the woman.
“Certainly, good Martha; make yourself comfortable.”
“Hopes yo’ fin’s yo’ breakfas’ good an’ yelishin’, young marse,” said the cook, as she modestly sat down on the cricket.
“The best breakfast, as well as the best night’s rest, I have had for many a day. Your coffee and your butter and your rolls cannot be surpassed,” said Harcourt heartily.
“P’oud ter hear yo’ say so, sah—but,” she inquired, dubiously, and ravenous for praise, like all her race, “anyfing de matter wid de ham or de hominy or de sweet taters, or de fr’ed chicken?”