“Miz Carter, she’s sick, Miss Jinny—took sick jest after de trial. I did heah she ain’t got any money, an’ Miz Quantah, she’s gwine to turn her out, sick or no sick, she say.”
Virginia sat up suddenly.
“What did you say, Lucas?”
Lucas turned half-way round, driving with one hand, and flourishing the other as he answered.
“I say Miz Wilyum Carter took sick, an’ she ain’t got any money.” Lucas stopped the horses and pointed.
“I reckon she’s sick in dat room ayonnah—see de blinds open? Ain’t nebber open ’less Miz Quantah got a lodger. Ain’t got noffin to eat at Miz Quantah’s ’cept corn-dodgers an’ rabbits—no, Miss Jinny, dey ain’t.”
“Lucas,” said Virginia earnestly, “do you really mean that Mrs. William Carter is over there now, ill, and without money?”
“Sho, Miss Jinny, she is. I got dat from Miz Quantah’s collud man—yes, miss, I sho did. She’s sick an’ she ain’t got no money.”
Virginia was silent. Her eyes fixed themselves on that distant house, that repulsive, sordid-looking house, and she thought of Fanchon—a small, dainty, bewitching creature—dancing that amazing dance at the church musicale.
Lucas started the horses. The road turned, and before them a low bridge spanned an exquisite stream. The water purled and dashed over stones and slipped, still clamoring, into a lovely pool where lily-pads floated and low willows dipped their swinging boughs.