Both, in taking leave of her, had placed themselves entirely at her service, imploring her to notify them by message or telegram whenever she might want them.
Roma thanked her old friends, and promised all they wished.
After their departure she sat quite alone in the small, dark-wainscoted parlor. The sun had gone down behind a bank of clouds.
It was now coming on to rain, and the air was cold for April.
Pompous came in and lighted the wax candles at each end of the mantelpiece and the moderator lamp on the round center table.
Then, without orders, he brought in a basketful of resinous pine cones and kindled a bright fire on the hearth.
Roma scarcely noticed what he was doing until the sudden blaze in the fireplace made her look up.
“Take de chill offen de ’a’, young mist’ess. Moughty onsartain dese Ap’il days an’ nights—moughty. Yere dis mornin’ so hot in de sun you’d ’a’ sought it mought be July ’stead ob Ap’il; now so col’ an’ damp yo’ mought sink it was Janiwery. Now I gwine fetch two or free cedar logs an’ lay on top o’ dese yere, an’ it will keep yo’ a sweet, lively little fire all de ebenin’,” said the negro as he turned to leave the room.
“Thank you, Pontius,” replied Roma, leaving her seat, in her restlessness, and beginning to walk up and down the floor.
In a few minutes the negro returned, laid the cedar logs across the andirons, clapped his hands gently over the hearth, to shake them free of fibers of bark, and then stood as if he had something to say.