Then they slipped back into the house.
Alice Westmore had stopped, smiling back from the doorway.
“On what, Bishop?” she finally asked.
He shook his head. “Jus' the dream of an ole man,” he said. “Don't bother about us two ole men. I'll be 'long presently.”
“Bisco,” said the old preacher after a while, “come mighty nigh makin' a break then—but I've been thinkin' of Cap'n Tom all day. I can't throw it off.”
Bisco shook his head solemnly. “So have I—so have I. The older I gits, the mo' I miss Marse Tom.”
“I don't like the way things are goin'—in yonder”—and the preacher nodded his head toward the house.
Uncle Bisco looked cautiously around to see that no one was near: “He's doin' his bes'—the only thing is whether she can forgit Marse Tom.”
“Bisco, it ain't human nature for her to stan' up agin all that's brought to bear on her. Cap'n Tom is dead. Love is only human at las', an' like all else that's human it mus' fade away if it ain't fed. It's been ten years an' mo'—sence—Cap'n Tom's light went out.”
“The last day of November—'64—” said Uncle Bisco, “I was thar an' seed it. It was at the Franklin fight.”