“Miss Mary, did them old Yankees kill him?”
“Yes, he was killed in battle.”
And again, whether sincere or affected, Frances became hysterical in demonstrations of grief.
“Miss Mary, whar’s Miss Missouri? Is she dead too?”
“No; that was she who was sitting in the portico with me as you were coming up the avenue. She always has to go off and compose herself before meeting any of you—ma was that way, too—I suppose you remind her of happier days, and the contrast is so sad that she is overcome by grief and has to get relief in tears.”
“Yes’m, I have to cry, too, and it does me a monstous heap of good. I know it’s mighty childish, but I jest can’t help it. Jest to think all my white folks is done dead but Miss Mary and Miss Missouri!”
“Our brother left a dear little boy in Texas, and I am going after him next winter. He and his mother are going to live with us, and then we will not be so lonely.”
“That’s so, Miss Mary.”
Frances and her children having partaken of a bountiful supper, she resumed, with renewed vigor, her erratic conversation, which consisted, chiefly, of innumerable questions, interspersed with much miraculous information regarding herself since she left her white folks and became a wife, a mother, and a widow.
“Miss Mary, whar’s my children going to sleep tonight?”