"Pshaw!" disgustedly. "Nothing of the kind! Wait—don't take the darlings away yet."
"But you am talkin' too much, missie."
"I'll be quiet in a minute. Look, nurse"—she put out a beautiful white hand and touched each of the babes in turn—"this dark one I'll name Jewel, this blue-eyed one Flower."
"Redikilous! I don't belebe dat Massa Charlie will 'low it," muttered the old woman; and Mrs. Fielding's eyes flashed angrily.
"I shall do as I please with my own babies!" she cried, imperiously.
"All right, honey. In course you'll do as you please—you al'ays does," was the soothing response; and then the old woman carried the twins back to their crib, adding, wisely: "'Tis a good sign to see sick people cross—dey's 'most sure to git well. Guess I'll ring de bell and hab some gruel fotched up fo' her."
But, in the very act of ringing the bell, her hand dropped to her side, her dark face turned ashen, and a groan forced its way through her lips.
A dreadful sound had broken the stillness of the sick-chamber—the low, muffled toll of the Tillage church-bell, telling of an impending funeral.
The beautiful dark face on the pillow lost its proud smile in a minute, and grew pale with awe.