“No, suh. Ain’ et no mor’n er hummin’-buhd dese las’ few days. Jes’ hangs eroun’ lonesome lak. Don’ laugh no mo’, don’ sing no mo’. Ain’ play de pianny sence de day aftah de ball. Me en Daph moght’ly pestered ’bout him.”
“Pshaw!” said the major. “Touch of spring fever, I reckon. Aunt Daph feeds him too well. Give him less fried chicken and more ash-cake and buttermilk. Make him some juleps.”
The old negro shook his head. “Moghty neah use up all dat mint-baid Ah foun’,” he said, “but ain’ do no good. Majah, Ah’s sho’ ’feahed sumpin’ gwineter happen.”
“Nonsense!” the major sniffed. “What fool idea’s got under your wool now? Been seeing Mad Anthony again, I’ll bet a dollar.”
Uncle Jefferson swallowed once or twice with seeming difficulty and turned the gravel with his toe. “Dat’s so,” he said gloomily. “Ah done see de old man de yuddah day ’bout et. Ant’ny, he know! He see trouble er-comin’ en trouble er-gwine. Dat same night de hoss-shoe drop off’n de stable do’, en dis ve’y mawnin’ er buhd done fly inter de house. Das’ er mighty bad hoodoo, er mighty bad hoodoo!”
“Shucks!” said the major. “You’re as loony as old Anthony, with your infernal signs. If your Mars’ John’s been out all day I reckon he’ll turn up before long. I’ll wait for him a while.” He started in, but paused on the threshold. “Did you say—ah—that mint was all gone, Unc’ Jefferson?”
Uncle Jefferson’s lips relaxed in a wide grin. “Ah reck’n dah’s er few stray sprigs lef’, suh. Step in en mek yo’se’f et home. Ef Mars’ John see yo’, he be mought’ly hoped up. Ah gwineter mix yo’ dat julep in two shakes!”
He disappeared around the corner of the porch and the major strode into the hall, threw his gray slouch hat on the table, and sat down.
It was quiet and peaceful, that ancient hall. He fell to thinking of the many times, of old, when he had sat there. The house was the same again, now. It had waked from a thirty-years’ slumber to a renewed prime. Only he had lived on meanwhile and now was old! He sighed.