“An’ den, in about de nex’ minute, ole mist’ess say to me:
“‘Marffy, put back yo’ marster’s cha’.’
“Now, young marse, I’d a yudder tetched a live yattlesnake dan dat cha’ w’ere de ghose had set, but I had to do it. So I prayed ef de Lord would spare my life dat time I’d try to be a better ’oman. An’ I push dat cha’ back sort ob gingerly, an’ all my flesh creepin’ offen my bones. An’ yes, young marse, many an’ many’s de time sence dat I hab had to wait on de ghoses, as I couldn’ see! No, I couldn’t see, nor likewise year! Tanks be to goodness fo’ dat much! Fo’ ef I had seed or yeard dem indiwisable fings I should a-drap down dead! I know I should!”
“Martha, there is no reality in all this. They are but the delusions, hallucinations of an infirm brain,” said Harcourt gravely.
“Young marse, yo’ may call ’em ’lusions or ’lucinations, or any fine name yo’ please, an’ so do I—sometimes—but mos’ly I do call ’em by de name I knowed ’em by w’en I was a young ’oman. I calls ’em ghoses. But dere! I mus’ ’liver Missus Wyn’op’s messidge. She tell me to tell yo’, w’en yo’ come out, to come into her yoom an’ see her.”
“Very well, I will go at once,” said the young man; and leaving Martha to rejoin her mistress, who was never left alone, he went directly to Mrs. Wynthrop’s sitting-room.
He found the three tall, fair women employed as they had been on his first call.
They all left work and made him welcome to the fireside.
“How did you find the dear mother?” inquired the elder lady.
“Not so well as I had been led to expect,” said Harcourt with a sigh.