Then, turning to the messenger, she held out her hand and said:
“How do you do, Leo? You have letters for me?”
Leo slowly took a packet from his pocket, handed them over to his mistress, and then, lifting both his hands to his eyes, burst out crying and ROARED as only a negro boy with his feelings hurt can do.
“Why, what is the matter?” anxiously inquired Drusilla, pausing in the examination of her letters, in her pity for the distress of the boy—“What is the matter, my poor Leo?”
“Oh, mum, it is to see-hee,” sobbed Leo “to see-hee you so well-hell, and hap-pappy, and to know as I am bring—hing bad news again! Seems like I was born—horn to be the death of you, ma’am,” said the boy, scarcely able to articulate through his sobs.
“I hope not, Leo. Sit down and compose yourself. I trust your master is well.”
“Oh yes, mum, he is well enough (wish to Goodness Gracious he wasn’t!) but he’s done, tored up everything and—Boo! hoo! ooo!” cried Leo, gushing out into such a cataract of tears and sobs that he was forced to bury his face in his big bandana and sink into a seat.
“Compose yourself, Leo, and I will read my letters. They will explain, I suppose,” said Drusilla, opening the packet.
There were three letters from her lawyers, which she laid aside; and there was one from her husband, which she opened and read. It ran thus:
“Cedarwood, Dec. 22, 18—.