“Well—bless—my soul! what’s all this? What’s all this?” he questioned, with staring eyes.
Marie Louise had already made a little courtesy. Her sunbonnet had fallen back, leaving exposed her pretty round head; and her sweet brown eyes were full of confidence as they looked into Mr. Billy’s.
“I’m bring some lilies to pay back fo’ yo’ cotton an’ co’n w’at Toto eat all up, M’sieur.”
Mr. Billy turned savagely upon Pompey. “What are you laughing at, you black rascal? Leave the room!”
Pompey, who out of mistaken zeal had doubled himself with merriment, was too accustomed to the admonition to heed it literally, and he only made a pretense of withdrawing from Mr. Billy’s elbow.
“Lilies! well, upon my—isn’t it the little one from across the lane?”
“Dat’s who,” affirmed Pompey, cautiously insinuating himself again into favor.
“Lilies! who ever heard the like? Why, the baby’s buried under ’em. Set ’em down somewhere, little one; anywhere.” And Marie Louise, glad to be relieved from the weight of the great cluster, dumped them all on the table close to Mr. Billy.
The perfume that came from the damp, massed flowers was heavy and almost sickening in its pungency. Mr. Billy quivered a little, and drew involuntarily back, as if from an unexpected assailant, when the odor reached him. He had been making cotton and corn for so many years, he had forgotten there were such things as lilies in the world.
“Kiar ’em out? fling ’em ’way?” questioned Pompey, who had observed his master cunningly.