"Why, yes," answered Rondeau, "that's what I'm going to tell. Right in the middle of the fuss I heard something moving softly down the stairs, and I saw a thing all as white as snow. Her hair, which was about the color of Leffie's neck—real handsome—was hanging in long curls down her back. I thought it was an angel, and kinder touched her as she passed, to see if she had wings. But the niggers said, 'It's Miss Fanny,' and next I heard 'twas all as still in the room, and marster was huggin' and kissin' her and cryin' over her. Then, when I tried to get nearer and see more, they crowded me into such a little spot that I didn't breathe again for a week."
"Why didn't you get out of the crowd then?" asked Dilsey.
"How could I?" answered Rondeau. "Lord, Dilsey, I'd like to have seen you there; but then there wouldn't have been room for anybody else, for the hall wouldn't more than hold you."
Here the conversation ended, but for a long time Rondeau [pg 228] carried on his arm the marks of Aunt Dilsey's finger and thumb.
Chapter XXIII
fanny's illness leads to her father's repentance
From the grassy hillside and bright green plains of Kentucky the frosts of winter were gone. By the dancing brook and in the shady nooks of the quiet valleys, the warm spring sun had sought out and brought to life thousands of sweet wild blossoms, which in turn had faded away, giving place to other flowers of a brighter and gayer hue.
Each night from the upper balcony of her father's handsome dwelling Fanny watched in vain for the coming of Dr. Lacey, whose promised return had long been delayed by the dangerous illness of his father. Over the wooded hills the breath of summer was floating, hot, arid and laden with disease. Death was abroad in the land, and as each day exaggerated rumors of the havoc made by cholera in the sultry climate of Louisiana reached Fanny, fearful misgivings filled her mind lest Dr. Lacey, too, should fall a victim to the plague.