The door was opened by a little yellow lady wearing a crimson silk bandana by way of cap. We had hardly spoken ere she guessed we were the “young massa boys that Ma’am Jones speak so much about.”
“And mother, is she with father?”
“She was wid Capitan Jones, but she come home to-day, sick.”
“She is here, then?”
“No, to-day she come home.”
“Is she very ill?”
“No, bless de lubly lad, no, no ill at all, only sick.”
Here was confusion and grief all mingled up together.
However, we waited. It was a beautiful room we were in, all jalousied and curtained, all thoroughly tropical in appearance, while every nick-nack around us was mother’s—her work-box, writing-desk, books, everything.
A light carriage stopped ere long, and at a glance we could see it was mother’s. We could not wait any longer, but ran right away down the garden to meet her.