Near him knelt Kenneth, holding his cold hand.
“I’se goin’, good-bye,” murmured the dying lad. “I’se goin’ to de land—ob sunshine. I see poor mudder soon.”
“Keebo,” said Kenneth, “you know me?”
“Ess, dear Massa Kennie.”
“Now, say after me. O Lord!”
“‘O Lor’!’”
“Receive poor Keebo’s soul.”
“‘Poor Keebo’s soul.’”
“For the blessed Jesu’s sake.”
“‘De bressed Jesu’s sake.’”