"Then you are not to blame," I replied.
"I wish I could feel so."
The Colonel remained with me till supper-time, evidently much depressed by the events of the morning, which had affected him more than I should have thought possible. I endeavored, by directing his mind to other topics, to cheer him, and in a measure succeeded.
While we were seated at the supper table, the black cook entered from the kitchen—a one-story shanty, detached from, and in the rear of the house—and, with a face expressive of every conceivable emotion a negro can feel—joy, sorrow, wonder, and fear all combined—exclaimed, "O massa, massa! dear massa! Sam, O Sam!"
"Sam!" said the Colonel; "what about Sam?"
"Why, he hab—dear, dear massa, don't yer, don't yer hurt him—he hab come back!"
If a bombshell had fallen in the room, a greater sensation could not have been produced. Every individual arose from the table, and the Colonel, striding up and down the apartment, exclaimed:
"Is he mad? The everlasting fool! Why in h—has he come back?"
"Oh, don't ye hurt him massa," said the black cook, wringing her hands. "Sam hab been bad, bery bad, but he won't be so no more."
"Stop your noise, aunty," said the Colonel, but with no harshness in his tone. "I shall do what I think right."