"But dar's masser, he eat well 'nuff,—and I—I'se mighty hungry dese days. Don't stop cookin', Pallas."
"You hain't got no more feelin's den a common nigger, Saturn. Nobody'd tink you was brought up in one de best families. If I could only tink of somethin' new dat would coax up pickaninny's appetite a little!"
"P'raps she'll eat some my woodchuck pie," suggested Saturn.
It was a great self-denial for him to propose to share a dish which he usually reserved especially to himself, but he, too, felt as tender as his organism would permit, toward his youthful mistress.
"Our missus eat woodchuck pie! you go 'long, Saturn; she wouldn't stomach it. Dat's nigger's dish. I declar' our chile begins to look jus' as missus did de year afore she died. I feel worried 'bout her."
"Does you? Mebbe she's got de rheumatiz or de neurology. I got de rheumatiz bad myself dis week pas'. Wish you'd fix up some of yer liniment, wife."
"Wall, wall, eberybuddy has der troubles, even innocen' ones like our chile. Dis is a wicked and a perwerse generation, and dat is de reason our woods tuk fire and our house burn up; and now our dear chile mus' go break her heart 'bout somebody as won't say wedder he lubs her or not. She'll go of consumption jes' as missus went. Lor'! who'd a thought our family wud ever come to sech an end? I remember when Mortimer Moore kep' up de plantation in gran' style 'fore he sol' ebery buddy but you and I, Saturn, and kep' us cause we wouldn't leab de family, and tuk us to New York. Mebbe it was wicked of me to take sides with my young missus, and help her to get married way she did, and run 'way wid her, and see to her tru thick and thin. But I see her die, and now, likely, I'll be resarbed to see her chile die. Dun know what poor old woman lib for to bury all her children for. When I tink of all de mince-pies and de chicken-pies I use to make, and see eat, for Chris'mas, I don't feel no heart for to lif' dis choppin'-knife anodder time."
Yet the preparations progressed, and on Christmas and New Year's day the men at the mill were supplied with a feast; but Alice could not bring herself to decorate the house with wreaths of evergreen, according to custom—it brought back hateful fears too vividly. The unceasing cry of her heart was for the river to open. She counted the hours of the days which must drag on into weeks and months.
Ben now came frequently to the house. If Alice would not talk to him, he would make himself agreeable to the old servants; any thing for an excuse to linger about where he could obtain glimpses of the face growing so sad and white. Mr. Wilde had always favored him as a work-hand, and now he invited him often to his home. He hoped that even Ben's company would amuse his daughter and draw her away from her "love-sickness."