When she was alone, she walked along the stone slabs of the veranda to a place where the columns cast a deep shadow. Kneeling upon the cold stones, she lifted her clasped hands in prayer for the one who had saved her happiness through his own renunciation.
CHAPTER XII
THE MUSIC OF HIS VOICE
In the early morning Dicey went into Natalia's room, and noiselessly turning the slats in a shutter, crept toward the bed. She stood there irresolutely for a few moments; then went softly around to the other side of the bed where she could look into Natalia's face. She started back when she saw the wide-open, sleepless eyes gazing at her.
Laying her hand soothingly on Natalia's feverish brow, she gently smoothed back the long black hair.
"Honey-chile," she said, when the light began to stream through the shutters, "I jes' knows yer ain' slep' er wink an' heah hit's de day Marsa gwine speak. An' yer hain' tole yer ole Mammy whut fixins ter lay out fer yer. Which is dey, honey? Yer jes' tell Mammy an' she'll fix dem so's yer won' habe er speck ob worry 'bout dem."
Natalia looked at her yearningly.
"Dear old Mammy," she answered, "how you love me—how I love you."
"Sho I lubs yer, honey—bettah dan anybody else—eben bettah dan Marse Sargent. But yer mus' look killin' ter-day, honey-chile," said Dicey, returning to the subject of most importance in her eyes. "Whut furbelows mus' I put out?"
Natalia stirred restlessly, finally taking hold of Dicey's coarsened hand and holding it close to her face.