Kate raised her heavy eyelids abstractedly.
“Sarvunt, ma’am,” said the woman, again curtseying, “Aunt Field Mary is well over it, ma’am. It’s a boy-chile, ma’am; a likely little boy-chile as ever you see, ma’am. An’ Aunt Field Mary told me to tell you, ma’am, how, thank the Lord, an’ she’s fotch through safe, an’ how she wouldn’t let dem sturve you las’ night, caze you wur so tired, an’ caze it wur the lassest night Marse Archer had to stay home. An’ Aunt Field Mary say, would you please to come down der to her quarter an’ see her dis mornin’, and how she wants some green tea, an’ loaf sugar, an’—an’—wine, if you please, ma’am.”
“What—what did you say?” asked Catherine, passing her hand over her forehead, to dispel the concentration of sorrowful thought.
“Aunt Field Mary, ma’am, it’s a boy-chile, ma’am, a likely little boy-chile as ever you see, ma’am, an’ she’s fotch well through of it, thank Marster, ma’am, an’ she say, how will you come an’ see her, an’ send her some liquor, an’ things. Likewise, Uncle Jubilee, its daddy, ma’am, he say, can’t he have a holyday to-day, ma’am, an’ stay home out’n de field, seein’ how it’s his firstest son an’ hier out’n seven darters.”
Passing her hand across her forehead slowly, Catherine dispersed the last lingering fragments of her bitter reverie, and stood up to her simple, practical, household duties. And then her action was clear and decided. She took up her little basket of keys, bade the woman follow her, and went down stairs and into the pantry, where she filled a hamper with tea and sugar, crackers, jelly, and other little matters, and gave it to her attendant, saying—
“Take these to Field Mary, and say that I will be down to see her presently.”
“Yes, ma’am, sure ’nough. But ’bout de liquor, honey? likewise Uncle Jubilee’s holyday, seein’ how it’s his firstest son an’ hier out’n seven darters?”
“Tell Mary that I cannot send her wine, it is not good for her now; but tell her to mention any other want, and if it be a proper one, it shall be supplied. Tell Jubilee to return to the field—his labor cannot possibly be spared from it to-day. And stay—what is your name?”
“Nelly, ma’am. ’Deed it is, honey. That’s my name, Nelly.”
“I think I never saw you up at the house before, Nelly?”