Old Adah, in her well-meaning, blundering manner, had tried to “break the news,” but had not succeeded. She was alarmed at the looks of the young man.
“Le’ me yun in de house an’ fetch yer a glass of wine, Marse Tudor! Please, sah!” she pleaded.
“No, no, no, do not move!—I want nothing—I want nobody to come. What did you say?—It was not——”
“No, Marse Tudor, it war not hern, no mo’ an it war your’n or mine,” impressively replied old Adah.
“But—it was identified as such by—by——”
“By de long, curly brack ha’r, so I years, an’ by de gown, an’ de unnerclose wid her name on ’em, an’ de putty little F’ench boots wid her name on de inside. Wa’n’t dat wot yer war gwine to say, Marse Tudor?”
“Yes.”
“Well, dat were all jes’ so. De booful ha’r war like Miss Lilif’s, shuah nuff, an’ de warm casher gown, an’ de unnerclose, an’ de pooty F’ench boots war all Miss Lilif’s. But dat war jes’ all dere war ob Miss Lilif’s. It wa’n’t hern.”
“Adah! what is this you are telling me, and what reason have you for saying what you do?” demanded Hereward, with a great effort.
“’Caze I knows all about it, young marse, an’ I knows whose ’mains dey war as war foun’ in de crik.”