When Mammy Dicey had blown out the candle and left the room, closing the door tight after her, Natalia jumped out of bed and ran to the window. Raising it, and pushing the shutters far apart, she leaned out so as to get a view of the big gate.
The moon was just rising, and by its cold, white light she could see far down the empty road. She stood looking out, until the night wind chilled her, and she shivered under her thin nightgown. Finally she closed the shutters and crept back to bed, huddling herself beneath the heavy quilt until she stopped trembling. Still she could not sleep for the quick beating of her heart and her intent listening. At last she got up resolutely, tiptoed to the door and went out into the hall, where a single candle always burned at night. For a moment she hesitated at the top of the dark staircase, then crept noiselessly downstairs and through the dining-room until she reached the door that led across an open passage to the kitchen. She gave a quick sigh of relief when she saw a flickering light through the kitchen window, and rushing across the passage, burst into the room and into old Dicey's arms, as she crouched before the fire.
"Fo' de Lawd, honey chile, whut yer doin' a runnin' 'round heah in de middle ob de night!" the old woman cried, gathering the child to her deep bosom and holding her tight. "An' yer footsies all cold an' naked an' nothin' more'n yer nightgown on. Whut's de mattah, honey?"
"Oh, Mammy, why don't he come?" Natalia whispered, her head buried against the old negro.
"He's a comin', sugar, he's all right. Now—put dis shawl 'round yer an' git wahm. I'se gwine ter set up an' wait fer him an' gib him sumthin' ter eat when he gits heah. Ole Miss tole me ter do hit."
"But he said he would only be gone a week, and it's a week now, Mammy—and over. And Mammy, I was so mean to him when he went away. I wouldn't tell him good-bye because he wouldn't take me walking any more, and shut himself up and studied and studied and studied—all the time. So when he came to tell us good-bye, I told him I did not want to shake hands with him because I hated him and hoped he wouldn't ever come back. And Mammy," the tears were streaming down her face now, "he said maybe he wouldn't come back, maybe something would happen to him. Now I know what he meant—he meant Jacob Phelps might kill him."
"No—he didn't mean dat. Don' yer worry erbout him, honey. Yer don' stedy 'bout nobody but him all de time. Sence dat schoolmas'r come yer done clean fergit yer Mammy Dicey."
Natalia's arms went about the old woman's neck and hugged her tight. "I won't ever forget you, Mammy," she said. "Not for anybody. But I do love him lots—next to you. He's so good to me all the time and I love so to watch his eyes—aren't they soft and sweet? And, Mammy, he always lets me talk to him about Mamma. Then he tells me about his Mamma away up in that cold country—so far away. Don't you love to hear him talk? Even if he does talk in great big words sometimes, I just love to hear him. I don't care if I don't know what he means, it sounds so fine and beautiful, and his voice just flows and flows—like the Bayou in the spring, Mammy—oh! do you reckon Jacob Phelps has got him?"
"Sh'h—honey chile, sh'h. Cose he hain' got him. Now you just snuggle up 'ginst me an' git wahm. Whut yer want Mammy ter sing ter yer? Now—dat's a heap bettah—ain' it?"
Holding the little girl close in her arms, Dicey reached out with one hand and threw a short log upon the fire, then sitting back comfortably again, and rocking to and fro, she began singing in a barely audible whisper an intimate little lullaby, just for themselves: