“’Deed, de bressed Lor’ knows I is mons’rous sorry to part long ob yo’, my young marse—I is fo’ sho—I means fo’ true I is,” ’Rusalem declared, not untruthfully, for his affectionate heart began to yearn over the young fellow, who had only given him great offense on one occasion—“W’en he were bit obercomed ’long ob too much wine,” as he put it. So he was sorry for the moment, and would not then confess to himself what a relief the departure of Hanson would be to himself and his “ole woman, Wilet.”
He took his load of small baggage below, piled it in the hall, and then went to tell the news to Wilet, whom he found standing at the kitchen table, making rolls to put in the oven for breakfast.
“Yo’ see dat dere wessel off yonner to de norf, p’intin’ dis yere way?”
“Yes—wot ail me not to see it? I been watchin’ ob it eber since I been stan’in’ at de table yere, ’fo’ de windy, makin’ my yoles. Wot ’bout it?”
“Heap ’bout it. Dat dere wessel ’longs to de young marster, an’ it comin’ yere to fetch him ’way. He gwine ’way to-day. He packin’ yup now. Wot yo’ fink ob dat?”
“Is dat so?” gravely inquired Wilet.
“Yas! Aine yo’ glad?”
“Y—a—s—course—I is,” hesitatingly replied the woman.
“Dere! I knowed it! Yo’ aine g’ad! Yo’ aine no mo’ g’ad nor I am, on’y yo’ doane wan’ to ’fess it,” chuckled ’Rusalem.
“Well, po’ fellow, yo’ see; but anyways it’s better fo’ ’im to go. He were a moughty deal ob trouble an’ ’sponsibility,” Wilet said.