“He daid. Dat’s what I was sent to tell you. Dey guinter bury him up at de old place.”
“I am sorry to hear of his death, Sandy. He was the best one of the boys.”
“Dat’s so, sir; ’tain’t nobody guine to miss him like his mammy do. She’s told me to ax you for your hoss and buggy. She’s afeared of the boys’ hosses, dey keep such wild uns. Marse Davy sold his’n, dat was the onliest one she would ride behind. She said she wanted Marse Hardin Campbell’s. It was so trusty and gentlelike.”
“I was going to use it after dinner.” Mr. Campbell hesitated.
“Send it on, grandpa. Send it on.” Esther saw the inquiring look her grandfather turned upon her. “Something will turn up.”
“Suppose it shouldn’t; would you be disappointed?” he asked.
“I never count on being disappointed,” she responded, quickly.
“Ain’t she some kin to Miss Mary Campbell?” The negro’s face lighted as he asked the question.
“That’s her daughter, Miss Esther Powel.”
“It ’peared to me like I seed de favor in her face. Ev’ybody loved your mammy, honey. ’Twarn’ nobody that didn’t,” he said, turning to look again at Esther.