When a few minutes later he went into the back room, he found Aunt Mornin sitting before the big fireplace in which burned a few logs of wood. The light the snapping sticks gave fell full upon her black face, and upon the small bundle upon her spacious knee.
As he entered she turned sharply towards him.
“Don’t nobody keer nothin’ for this yere?” she said, “ain’t nobody comin’ nigh? Whar’s he? Don’t he take no int’rus’ in the pore little lonesome child? I ’spect yo’ll haf to take it ye’self, Mars’ De Willerby, while I goes in dar.”
Tom stopped short, stricken with a pang of remorse. He looked down at the small face helplessly.
“Yes,” he said, “you’ll have to go in there; you’re needed.”
The woman looked at him in startled questioning.
“Mars De Willerby,” she said, “does dat ar mean she’s cl’ar gone?”
“Yes,” answered Tom. “She’s gone, Mornin.”
With the emotional readiness of her race, the comfortable creature burst into weeping, clasping the child to her broad bosom.
“Pore chile!” she said, “an’ poor chile lef behin’! De Lord help ’em bofe.”