Then came the kindly old man himself, his face radiant with a look she had not seen on a face for many weeks. After the week she had been through, this itself was a comfort. She met him with feigned calmness and a little laugh.
“You promised to tell me where you had been, Bishop, all these weeks. It must have made you very, very happy.”
“I'll tell you down at the cabin, if you'll dress yo' very pretties'. There's friends of yo's down there you ain't seen in a long time—that's mighty anxious to see you.”
“Oh, I do indeed feel ashamed of myself for having neglected the old servants so long; but you cannot know what has been on my mind. Yes, I will go with you directly.”
The old man looked at her admiringly when she was ready to go—at the dainty gown of white, the splendid hair of dark auburn crowning her head, the big wistful eyes, the refined face. Upon him had devolved the duty of preparing Alice Westmore for what she would see in the cabin, and never did he enter more fully into the sacredness of such an occasion.
And now, when she was ready and stood before him in all her superb womanhood, a basket of dainties on her arm for the old servants, he spoke very solemnly as he handed her an ambrotype set in a large gold breast-pin.
“You'll need this to set you off—around yo' neck.”
At sight of it all the color left her cheeks.
“Why, it is mine—I gave it to—to—Tom. He took it to the war with him. Where”—A sob leaped into her throat and stopped her.
“On my journey,” said the old man quickly, “I heard somethin' of Cap'n Tom. You must prepare yo'se'f for good news.”