Poor little Bett-Bett! as I watched her I knew that sooner or later I must let her go, for there was no other cure for her. If I tried to keep her, she would only run away or be ill.
At last she came to me saying—
“Missus! me sick-fellow, I think,” and sat down at my feet.
I talked to her quietly for a little while about her people, and their long walk-abouts; for the sooner she went, the quicker she would be cured.
All at once she knew what she needed.
“Missus,” she cried, springing to her feet, all life and energy again, “Missus, me want walk-about. No more longa you, Missus, longa blackfellow.”
That was all—and I only asked—
“How long, Bett-Bett?”
“Me no more savey, Missus,” she answered, her eyes burning like stars. She could not tell. She only knew that she must stay till she was cured.
Next morning at “sun up” she went. She took nothing with her but the little bag made from her “Shimy Shirt” string, for in that were her most precious treasures. She stuffed all her clothes into her box, wearing only a gaily-striped handkerchief wound round her middle. Even that would soon be gone, for she was going to be just a little black nigger girl for a while.