I came away without closing the door, thinking of my father’s words; and I’m afraid with something of the same thoughts as I should have had about some of the wild creatures I had before tried to tame, I began to long for the coming down of Mrs Morgan to prepare breakfast, meaning to get from her a good bowl of the Indian corn porridge that she regularly prepared.
As it happened she was extra early that morning; and as soon as I had proffered my request, she informed me rather tartly that she knew all about it, for the master had given her orders the night before.
By the time it was ready and cooling, my father was down.
“That for the blacks?” he said, as he saw the bowl I was taking to the shed.
“Yes,” I said; and I told him about what I had seen.
“Poor fellow! I am not surprised,” he said. “What can be more horrible than the way in which they were confined?”
The man was awake, and on our entering the dim shed he made an effort to rise, but fell back helplessly, and lay gazing at us in a half fierce, half sullen way, not changing his aspect as my father felt his pulse, and laid his hand upon his head.
“Hah! That’s better,” said my father; “less fever. If he can eat, it is only a question of time. Where is the boy?”
We looked round, but he was invisible.
“Call the boy,” said my father, looking hard at the man, and pointing to the food; but there was no sign of being understood, and my father turned to me. “Set the bowl down,” he said. “They will get used to us in time.”