He had dodged a wet sheet and had the old woman by the hand now, her face in a broad grin at sight of him.
“No, aunty—I came down to pay you some money.”
“You don't owe me no money—leastwise you don't owe me nothin' till ye kin pay it,” and she darted an annihilating glance at Todd.
“Yes, I do—but let me see where you live. What a fine place—plenty of room except on wash-days. All those mine?—I didn't know I had that many clothes left. Pick up that basket, Todd, and bring it in for aunty.” The two made their way between the wet linen and found themselves in front of the dwelling. “And is this all yours?”
“De fust flo' front an 'back is mine an' de top flo' I rents out. Got a white man in dere now dat works in de lumber yard. Jes' come up an' see how I fixed it up.”
“And tell me about your sister—is she better?” he continued.
The old woman put her arms akimbo: “Lawd bress ye, Marse George!—who done tol' ye dat fool lie! I ain't got no sister—not yere!”
“Why, I thought you couldn't come back to me because you had to nurse some member of your family who had kittens, or some such misery in her spine—wasn't that it, Todd?” said St. George trying to conceal a smile.
Todd shot a beseeching look at Jemima to confirm his picturesque yarn, but the old woman would have none of it.
“Dere ain't been nobody to tek care ob but des me. I come yere 'cause I knowed ye didn't hab no money to keep me, an' I got back de ol' furniture what I had fo' I come to lib wid ye, an' went to washin', an' if dat yaller skunk's been tellin' any lies 'bout me I'm gwineter wring his neck.”