“How, then, did you learn to read and write, and especially to spell so well?”
The girl appeared frightened a bit by these questions, which seemed to be master keys of inquiry into the mystery of her early life. Kilgariff, observing her hesitation, said quickly but very gently:—
“There, little girl, don’t answer my ‘sick man’s’ questions. I didn’t mean to ask them. They are impertinent.”
“No,” she said reflectively, “nothing that comes from you can be impertinent, I reckon,”—for she was rapidly adopting the dialect of the cultivated Virginians. “You see, you took me out of that house afire, and so you have a right—”
“I claim no right whatever, Evelyn,” he said, “and you must quit thinking about that little incident up there on the Rapidan.”
“Oh, but I can never quit thinking about that. You were great and good, and oh, so strong! and you did the best thing that ever anybody did for me.”
“But I would have done the same for a negro.”
“But you didn’t do it for a negro. You did it for me. So you see I am right about it. Am I not?”
“I suppose so. Your logic is a trifle lame, perhaps, but your heart is right. Never mind that now.”