"Yes, you can, Mammy, dear," and Natalia leaned her head on the old woman's bosom. "That is one of the principal things I came back for—to get you. I want to be a little girl again and get you to tell me stories about mamma, and go to sleep at night holding your hand—just like I used to do, Mammy. Oh, if we could only stay little always," she sighed wistfully. "If the world would only stop moving and let us stay just the same all the time—we could be so—so happy. But here I am—a woman now, and you, Mammy, you are an old woman, with your white hair and your wrinkles—but I love you, all the same—more than any one in the world except—"
"'Cept who?"
"Except my sweetheart."
Dicey's eyes flashed.
"Dat curly-headed, pretty man in de green coat, dat was settin' in frunt ob yer in de ca'iage?"
"Yes, that was he. But 'pretty' is not the word that describes him, Mammy. 'Handsome' suits him better."
For a second Dicey deigned no answer.
"Wait tell yer sees Marse Sargent—den yer'll see whut er han'some gemman is, sho' 'nough."
"You are entirely too faithful to him, Mammy Dicey," Natalia laughed. "He has stolen your love from me."
"An' wait tell yer hears him speak in public. De people goes wild ober him. Las' week dey fired off cannons when he cum home frum Jackson, and dat night dey built bon-fires all ober de town ter do him honour, an' when he begin ter speak in de Co't-house squar' and eberybody went ter heah him, yer could er heerd er pin drap, eberything wuz so quiet. An' when de words cum dey soun' so beautiful an' sweet dey set me ter stedyin' 'bout mos' ebery thing in jineral."