“But,” and the questioner looked a trifle bewildered, “a little child, that would not mean a great expense, surely if your mistress, or your master, knew, they would help you.”
Margeret shook her head, and Pluto spoke more calmly.
“Not likely; this war done crippled all the folks in money; that why Mahs Jean Larue sell out an’ go ovah in Mexico; that why Loren’wood up fo’ sale to strangers; that why Judge Clarkson done sell out his share in cotton plantation up the river; ain’t nobody got hundreds these days, an’ lawyers won’t take promises. I done paid eighteen dollars on Rosa when she died, but I ain’t got no writin’,” he went on, miserably, “that was to go on Zekal, an’ I have ’nigh onto nine dollars ’sides that. I gwine take it ovah to Mahs Larue nex’ week, sure, an’ now––an’––now––”
His words were smothered in a sigh; what use were words, any way? Judithe felt that Margeret’s eyes were on her face as she listened––wistful, questioning eyes! Would the words be of no use?
“The Jean Larue estate,” she said, meditatively, seating herself at the table and picking up a pen, “and your wife was named Rosa?”
“Yes’m.” He was staring at her as a man drowning might stare at a spar drifting his way on a chance wave; there was but the shadow of a hope in his face as he watched with parted lips the hand with the pen––and back of the shadow what substance!
“And she is dead––how long?”
“A yeah gone now.”
“And Mr. Larue asks how much for her child?”