The air was rippling now, and hot and caressing. There was the hum of bumble bees outside; and busy mud-daubers kept flying in and out through the door. Some chickens had penetrated to the very threshold in their aimless roamings, and the little pig was approaching more cautiously. Sleep was fast overtaking the child, but she could still hear through her drowsiness the familiar tones of Aunt Pinky’s voice.
“But Hi’um, he done gone; he nuva come back; an’ Yallah Tom nuva come back; an’ ole Marster an’ de chillun—all gone—nuva come back. Nobody nuva come back to Pinky ’cep you, my honey. You ain’ gwine ’way f’om Pinky no mo’, is you, Miss Paulette?”
“Don’ fret, Aunt Pinky—I’m goin’—to stay with—you.”
“No pussun nuva come back ’cep’ you.”
Odalie was fast asleep. Aunt Pinky was asleep with her head leaning back on her chair and her fingers thrust into the mass of tangled brown hair that swept across her lap. The chickens and little pig walked fearlessly in and out. The sunlight crept close up to the cabin door and stole away again.
Odalie awoke with a start. Her mother was standing over her arousing her from sleep. She sprang up and rubbed her eyes. “Oh, I been asleep!” she exclaimed. The cart was standing in the road waiting. “An’ Aunt Pinky, she’s asleep, too.”
“Yes, chérie, Aunt Pinky is asleep,” replied her mother, leading Odalie away. But she spoke low and trod softly as gentle-souled women do, in the presence of the dead.
Cavanelle