The girls returned the greeting, suggesting that they all sit under a tree in the front yard where Uncle Ross had provided a bench for smoking and resting purposes.
“Uncle,” Madge began when they were seated, “I have been told that your father was a caretaker at the old Swenster place years ago.”
“’Deed he was, chile. He’s tole me dat many a time. ’Sides dat, I used to live dere myself when I was a boy.”
“Do you remember that your father ever mentioned anything about the family pearls?” Madge inquired, watching him closely. “I mean the ones that were lost.”
“Oh, dem pearls! I used to hear heaps about ’em but dey just faded out wid de years. Sometimes I thinks dey neveh was any pearls—just ghost pearls dat went up in smoke if dey eveh was any such-like jewels in de family.”
“But can’t you recall anything your father ever said about where he thought they had been hidden?” Madge persisted.
Uncle Ross scratched his white wool, assuming a pose of deep reflection.
“Mah ole memory is full o’ holes now, Miss. It was so long ago dat de ole haid has lost its grip.”
“But try and think, Uncle! What were your father’s duties about the place. He was a gardener for one thing, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, Miss. De ole man was one of de expertest gardeners in dis town. Dey wasn’t anotheh family in dis whole town dat had a garden like dem Swenster folks—roses a ramblin’ around over de walls and honeysuckles loaded down wid hummin’ birds. Dey don’t have no more quality white folks dese days, no suh!”