Ellen looked master all over with the good-natured cunning of her race. “Sir,” she said, “you looks like the gen’l’men down South—you wouldn’t let your little dog suffer nohow, even if it was Ellen’s.”
Master laughed heartily. He loved frankness, and hated deceit. “Ellen,” he said, “that dog will have a limited income as long as he lives. It will be paid weekly, and you will have to go to an address I will give you to get it. As he enjoys driving, I will have a carriage call for you once a week, and you can take Beans with you to report for himself.”
Old Ellen didn’t know what to say. She looked everywhere—all round the room, out the window, down at the dog in her lap, and hard at me, as I sat staring at her.
Finally she got up, put Beanie down, and said quietly, “Sir, would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Very much,” he replied.
Ellen lighted her gas stove, got out the big pot, made the coffee, and handed him a cup and saucer that she took from a cupboard in the wall.
Master handled it in surprise. “This is Sèvres,” he said, “and costly.”
“Sir,” she said solemnly, “that was a present from my old mistress whose heart was broke by de war.”
Master held the cup out from him, as if he dreaded to touch his lips to it.
“But,” said old Ellen in the queer, mysterious voice negroes can assume, “happiness come afore she died—Sir, is you happy?”