Roma, pacing up and down the floor, scarcely noticed him.
At last he said:
“Mons’ous sorry to year wot happen’d ob, youn’ mist’ess. Nebber yeared nuftin ’t all ’bout it till I come f’om de mill dis arternoon. Mons’ous sorry I didn’ set Tige on dat lowlife w’ite trash yes’day. Mons’ous sorry. Ef ebber he do sho’ his lowlife w’ite face onto dis plantation ag’in I gwine set Tige on him, fo’ sho! I is, ef I’s got to hang fo’ it. I is, indeed. Trufe, fo’ a fac’.”
“I do not think he will come again,” said Miss Fronde.
“He better not. ’Deed, he better not. Not ef he knows wot’s good fo’ his healf, he hadn’t. But, say, young mist’ess, can’t yo’ have dat w’ite herrin’ hung fo’ stealing dat chile?”
“Hardly, Pontius.”
“All yight, den. I’ll be hung fo’ him ef he ebber sho’ his face yere ag’in. It’s de trufe, fo’ a fac’.”
Miss Fronde made no comment. She scarcely heard the monologue of the man, who continued to talk in the same strain, repeating himself over and over again, as is the manner of his kind, until, receiving no encouragement to stand and talk, he strutted out of the room in his usual ponderous fashion.
Roma came and threw herself down in the easy-chair beside the table, on which stood the moderator lamp. By its light she saw the packet of letters and papers that had been brought from the Goeberlin post office by Puck in the afternoon, and, in the exciting events of the time, had been forgotten until this moment.
There were three letters—all of them foreign—one from Mrs. Gray, one from Abbot Elde, and one from Tim Toomie.