When Harcourt had thoroughly washed and combed himself, and changed all his clothes from the resources of his carpetbag, he went into the kitchen, to find a substantial supper laid on the neat table, and a pot of fragrant tea steaming on the hearth.
“I ’pared it all yere, young marse, ’caze I didn’t want to ’sturb yo’ w’ile yo’ was washin’ an’ dressin’, nor likewise to keep yo’ waitin’ arter yo’ got t’rough. Now it’s all yeddy fo’ yo’.”
Harcourt sat down to tea, home-made bread, sweet butter, new-laid eggs and fried rashers of bacon. And if he did not do honor to Martha’s cooking it was because his appetite was not yet good, and not because the supper was plain, as the poor woman insisted that it was, with many apologies.
“See, ef I’d knowed yo’ was comin’, young marster, I’d had some hot yoles an’ fried chicken, an’ cakes an’ ’serves; but yo’ tak’ me so unawares,” she said, as she removed the dishes and cleared the table.
“Indeed. I have had all I want, Martha, except the news you promised to tell me, and I am ready for that now.”
“All yight, young marster. Yo’ draw yo’ cha’ up to de fire, an’ soon’s ebber I fole up dis tablecloff I come an’ sit down on dat little cricket an’ tell yo’ all about it. I’s got heaps to tell yo’, an’ dat’s de trufe,” said Martha, completing her last act in setting the place in order.
Then she drew a small bench—called in her parlance a cricket, probably because of its being an humble little chimney-corner seat, and began her story.
“Yo’ know dat time w’en ole mist’ess went sudden to de city?”
“Yes,” sighed Harcourt.
“Well, she nebber tell me wot took her off so sudden. Said she’d tell me w’en she got back. But, Lor’!”