“You don’t want wait till de doctah comin’?” she asked.
“I don’t think he’s coming; it’s after his time.”
The woman was silent a moment, and then threw up one hand again, with the forefinger lifted alertly forward.
“I make a lill fi’ biffo.”
She made a fire. Then she helped the convalescent to put on a few loose drapings. She made no concealment of the enjoyment it gave her, though her words were few, and generally were answers to questions; and when at length she brought from the wardrobe, pretending not to notice her mistake, a loose and much too ample robe of woollen and silken stuffs to go over all, she moved as though she trod on holy ground, and distinctly felt, herself, the thrill with which the convalescent, her young eyes beaming their assent, let her arms into the big sleeves, and drew about her small form the soft folds of her husband’s morning-gown.
“He goin’ to fine that droll,” said the quadroon.
The wife’s face confessed her pleasure.
“It’s as much mine as his,” she said.
“Is you mek dat?” asked the nurse, as she drew its silken cord about the convalescent’s waist.