“’Tain’t no fault o’ hern, cap’n,” she said; “ef Bijah wur like ye, sir, the childer’d be glad enough to git clost to him.”
“Yes; love begets love,” he said. Then taking up his basket, which he had set on the floor beside his chair; “I have something here for you and should like to see you eat some of it now.”
“What is it, cap’n?” she asked as he handed her a large china cup filled with something white, creamy, and very tempting in appearance.
“They call it Spanish Cream,” he answered. “I think you will find it good; and these lady-fingers, just fresh from the oven when I started will go nicely with it,” he added, setting a plate of them down on the bed beside her.
“Lady-fingers?” she repeated; “what’s them? I never hearn on ’em afore.”
“Sponge cakes,” he said; “they are very light and neither rich nor tough; so I think you may eat freely of them without fear of harm.”
“They’re mighty nice, cap’n,” she said when she had tasted them; “an’ this here creamy stuff—I never tasted nothin’ better. It wuz awful kind o’ ye to fetch ’em, but I haint got no appetite no more, an’ so ye mustn’t think hard o’ me that I don’t eat hearty of ’em.”
“Oh, no, certainly not,” he said.
“Shall I empty them things and wash ’em, ma?” asked Amanda, drawing near the bed and looking with longing eyes at the dainty food.
“Yes; but don’t you uns eat ’em clean up from yer sick mother that cayn’t eat yer bacon an’ corn bread and taters.”