“How—how is my mother?”
“She—she’s well—dat is, toler’ble well. The Lord a-messy upon me, young marse! Who’d ’a’ ’spected to see you yere to-night? Come in, honey. Come in an’ warm yo’se’f,” said the woman, standing aside to let him pass.
“Thank heaven, she is well! Has she retired?” inquired the young man as he entered the kitchen and threw himself into the only chair, which Martha had hastily set by the little fire of pine knots.
“Yes, sah, de ole madam is ’tire.”
“Is she asleep, do you think?”
“Oh, yes, young marse—soun’.”
“Then I can go in and look at her without disturbing her,” said the young man, rising to pass into the other room.
“No, yo’ can’t, young marse! No, yo’ can’t, indeed, sah! Set down an’ rest yo’se’f!” exclaimed the woman.
Harcourt dropped into his seat. A new fear seized him.
“What do you mean?” he demanded. “You say that she is well, you say that she is sound asleep! Do you mean—do you mean——”