“I don’t know,” answered the young girl. “And yet I cannot help having fear.”
She lay for a while silent, as if reflecting. It was not altogether on her fears.
“What did he say to you, Sabby?” she asked at length.
“You mean Massa Maynar?”
“Yes.”
“He no say much. Da wan’t no time.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Wa, yes,” drawled the Creole, nonplussed for an answer—“yes; he say, ‘Sabby—you good Sabby; you tell Missy Blanche dat no matter what turn up, I lub her for ebba and ebba mo.’”
The Creole displayed the natural cunning of her race in conceiving this passionate speech—their adroitness in giving tongue to it.
It was a fiction, besides being commonplace. Notwithstanding this, it gave gratification to her young mistress, as she intended it should.