“I think you are very foolish to even dream of such a thing, Mom Bi. Maria is not able to take care of you.”
“I gwine down dey wey my daughter bin live at,” persisted Mom Bi. Then she looked at the portrait of Gabriel Waynecroft. The beautiful boyish face seemed to arouse her. Turning suddenly, she exclaimed:
“De Lord know I done bin fergive you-all fer sellin’ ’Ria ’way fum me. De Lord know I is! Wun I bin see you set down un let dat chile go off fer git kill’”—Mom Bi pointed her long and quivering finger at Gabriel’s portrait—“wun I see dis, I say ‘hush up, nigger! don’t bodder ’bout ’Ria.’ De Lord know I done bin fergive you!”
With this Mom Bi turned to the door and passed out.
“Won’t you tell us good-by?” the Judge asked.
“I done bin fergive you,” said Mom Bi.
“I think you might tell us good-by,” said Mrs. Waynecroft, with tears in her eyes and voice.
“I done bin fergive you,” was the answer.
This was in June. One morning months afterward Judge Waynecroft was informed by a policeman that a crazy old negro woman had been arrested in the cemetery.
“She is continually talking about Gabriel Waynecroft,” said the officer, “and the Captain thought you might know something about her. She’s got the temper of Old Harry,” he continued, “and old and crippled as she is, she’s as strong as a bull yearling.”