“Day’s breakin’,” he whispered again, as he stood with Alice asleep in his arms, while somebody was heard stirring within.
“Sam?” said a low, wary voice just within the unopened door.
“Sister,” softly responded the spy, and the door swung inward, and revealed a tall woman, with an austere but good face, that could just be made out by the dim light of a tallow candle shining from the next room. The travellers entered and the door was shut.
“Well,” said the spy, standing and smiling foolishly, and bending playfully in the shoulders, “well, Mrs. Richlin’,”—he gave his hand a limp wave abroad and smirked,—“‘In Dixie’s land you take yo’ stand.’ This is it. You’re in it!—Mrs. Richlin’, my sister; sister, Mrs. Richlin’.”
“Pleased to know ye,” said the woman, without the faintest ray of emotion. “Take a seat and sit down.” She produced a chair bottomed with raw-hide.
“Thank you,” was all Mary could think of to reply as she accepted the seat, and “Thank you” again when the woman brought a glass of water. The spy laid Alice on a bed in sight of Mary in another chamber. He came back on tiptoe.
“Now, the next thing is to git you furder south. Wust of it is that, seein’ as you got sich a weakness fur tellin’ the truth, we’ll jess have to sort o’ slide you along fum one Union man to another; sort o’ hole fass what I give ye, as you used to say yourself, I reckon. But you’ve got one strong holt.” His eye went to his sister’s, and he started away without a word, and was presently heard making a fire, while the woman went about spreading a small table with cold meats and corn-bread, milk and butter. Her brother came back once more.
“Yes,” he said to Mary, “you’ve got one mighty good card, and that’s it in yonder on the bed. ‘Humph!’ folks’ll say; ‘didn’t come fur with that there baby, sho!’”
“I wouldn’t go far without her,” said Mary, brightly.
“I say,” responded the hostess, with her back turned, and said no more.