She made no reply to this.
“Phœbe hasn’t any money; or, if she’s been trying to earn some, it must be mighty little. See here: I’ll finish school next week, and then I’m going to take care of the family myself, and look after things. Don’t you know I’m the head of the Darings, Auntie, and entitled to know all about our affairs? So tell me, where does all the money come from to pay the grocer, and the butcher, and all the rest?”
“Miss Phœbe done guv me some,” she persisted, half frightened at his earnestness.
“And the rest, Auntie?”
She twisted her apron in her hands and cast an appealing glance into his stern face.
“Tell me, Auntie!”
“Well, yo’ see, Marse Phil,” she began, slowly, “I’ve got a little money what useter b’long to yo’ dead papa.”
“My father!”
“Dat’s a fac’, honey. Ol’ Marse allus done pay me mo’ wages’n I could earn, nohow. I kep’ sayin’ I didn’ want no money; but he insis’, chile; dat ol’ Marse Wallace insis’ I take all he guv me. Law sakes, I don’ neveh need no money, Marse Phil. What ’n a world I need money fo’—now yo’ tell me, ef yo’ can! But I gotter take it, or make Marse Wallace mad. So, I put it in de bank fo’ safe keepin’, an’ jus’ bided mah time to git even. ’Twan’t mine, honey, shuah ’nuff; but I jes’ let it stay in de bank fo’ ’mehgencies.”
Phil’s face was a study. It grew red and white, stern and dismayed by turns. It was not that he resented accepting assistance from Aunt Hy; she seemed one of the family; but that the Darings should be so miserably poor as to be dependent upon the services of their black mammy for support was so shameful that he could scarcely bear the thought.