Le threw up the window sash to inhale the fresh air. It was keen and cold this winter morning, yet refreshing to his fevered head.
The sun was up and shining from a clear, blue sky upon the snow-covered earth, and the forest of pine beyond, and the grove of cedars, spruce, firs and other evergreens near the house.
Le closed the window at length, and sat down to wait for the coming of Roland Bayard.
Old Luke came in with oak logs to replenish the fire.
“Mornin’, young marster! Gettin’ colder, ain’t it? Shouldn’t wonder ef de crik didn’t froze ober ’fore night,” he said, as he laid the logs carefully on the blazing brands.
Le assented, in a low voice, scarcely knowing what had been said to him, or what he said.
The man retired, and was succeeded by the woman, Martha, who came in to set the table for her master’s breakfast.
“Mornin’, Marse Le! Hope as yer feel better’n yer did las’ night, dough, Lor’ knows, now I look at yer, yer doan look any better; yer looks wuss. ’Deed, Marse Le, yer ought to ’sult a doctor,” she said, as she opened the tablecloth and flirted it out to spread over the table, keeping her eyes on the young master all the time.
“I am not ill, Martha,” he said.
“Ain’t yer, now, Marse Le? Well, den, yer’s gwine to be, dat’s all,” was the encouraging comment.