“No,” she answered. “I have never had one and I have never been conjured either. Give it to me, William; I can not allow you to be so superstitious,” and she held out her hand.
“Please, Aunt Minerva, jest lemme wear it to-night,” he pleaded. “Me an' Wilkes Booth Lincoln's been wearin' us rabbit foots ever sence we's born.”
“No,” she said firmly; “I'll put a stop to such nonsense at once. Give it to me, William.”
Billy looked at his aunt's austere countenance and lovingly fingered his charm; he opened his mouth to say something, but hesitated; slowly he untied the string around his neck and laid his treasure on her lap; then without looking up, he ran into his own little room, closing the door behind him.
Soon afterward Miss Minerva, hearing a sound like a stifled sob coming from the adjoining room, opened the door softly and looked into a sad, little face with big, wide, open eyes shining with tears.
“What is the matter, William?” she coldly asked.
“I ain't never slep' by myself,” he sobbed. “Wilkes Booth Lincoln always sleep on a pallet by my bed ever sence we's born an'—'I wants Aunt Cindy to tell me 'bout Uncle Piljerk Peter.”
His aunt sat down on the bed by his side. She was not versed in the ways of childhood and could not know that the little boy wanted to pillow his head on Aunt Cindy's soft and ample bosom, that he was homesick for his black friends, the only companions he had ever known.
“I'll you a Bible story,” she temporized. “You must not be a baby. You are not afraid, are you, William? God is always with you.”
“I don' want no God,” he sullenly made reply, “I wants somebody with sho' 'nough skin an' bones, an'—n' I wants to hear 'bout Uncle Piljerk Peter.”