Harcourt got up, kissed the wrinkled forehead of the aged woman, and with a deep sigh left the room, passing into the front parlor.
There he found Martha waiting for him.
“Wot I tell yo’, young marse?” she inquired.
“The truth, Martha, and a very distressing truth,” he sighed.
“Doane yo’ say dat, young marse. Her ’lusions mak’ her so contented. An’ sometimes I doane fink dey’s altogedder ’lusions, nudder.”
“What do you mean, Martha?”
“Sometimes I fink dey is ’bout her, sure ’nough.”
“Martha!”
“Yes, I do, young marse—sometimes! W’y, w’en I year de ole madam talkin’ to de ole marster jus’ as ef he were here p’esen’, I tell yo’ it do gimmy de creeps! I feel like he were dere sure ’nough, on’y I couldn’ see him. Trufe I’m tellin’ yo’ young marse.”
“Martha, you must not give such reins to your imagination.”