ARCHER CLIFTON.”
Still clasping the letter, her hand and head fell with a gesture of utter despair.
“Why, what’s de matter, Miss Kate, honey? no bad news, I trus’,” said Henny.
A deep, heart-breaking sob only answered her.
“My goodness, Miss Kate, deary, what is it den? is marster dead? Oh, deary me, Miss Kate, chile, don’t keep on looking dat a way—’deed, you puts a scare on to me!—don’t! Sider how it’s de Lord’s will, honey, an’ let de tears come, let de tears come, chile! Do, honey. ’Deed, troubles like de measles; ef it don’t break out, it strikes in an’ kills you dead—”
A gasp from Catherine, and a gesture imploring silence, while she spanned her temples with both hands, and tried to think clearly.
“My gracious, Miss Kate, don’t look so ghashly, honey—don’t. Is marster dead, sure enough?”
“He’s not dead, he’s not dead,” said Catherine, huskily, while she waved her hand for peace.
“Well, den, honey, long as der’s life der’s hope, an’ no ’casion for ’spair. Is he berry bad, honey?”
“He’s well—well,” said Catherine, in the same tone.