“How is the weather, Forrest?” inquired Mrs. Helmstedt, who was now at the cabinet, that I have mentioned as standing to the right of the fireplace, and writing rapidly.
“Bad ’nough, Miss Marget, ma’am, I ’sures you.”
“The wind has stopped.”
“O’ny to catch his breaf, Miss Marget, ma’am. He’ll ’mence ’gain strong’n ever—you’ll hear—’cause ef he didn’t stop at de tide comin’ in, dis ebenen, he ain’t gwine stop till it do go out to-morrow morn’n.”
Mrs. Helmstedt had finished writing, folded, closed and directed a letter, which she now brought to her messenger.
“Forrest, I don’t wish you to endanger your life by venturing to cross to the shore in a gale, but I wish this letter posted in time to go out in the mail at six o’clock to-morrow morning, and so you may take charge of it now; and if the wind should go down at any time to-night, you can carry it to the post office.”
“Miss Marget, ma’am, it goes. I ain’t gwine to ask no win’ no leave to take your letter to de pos’—when you wants it go it goes,” said the faithful creature, putting the letter carefully into his breast pocket.
“Any oder orders, Miss Marget, ma’am?”
“No, only take care of yourself.”
Forrest bowed reverently and went out, softly closing the door behind him.