Miss May, pale and tear-stricken, had stepped out of the parlor. She grasped my hand and then hastened up the stairs.
"Elliot brought the news," said Old Miss, leaning back against the wall. "And May went over—over to tell 'her.' Infamous creature, she was making preparations for her wedding. Oh, this world, this world! Oh, my son, if I could only call him back!" She looked at me with her head turned to listen for Miss May's footsteps. "I have been the most miserable woman in the world, and a thousand times I have prayed for death." Her eyes grew brighter. She straightened up with pride. "But he died like a hero. Tell me about him."
I told her how he had fallen; and when I mentioned the letters that were put into the grave with him, she cleared her throat with the old dry rasp.
"How long has Master been sick?" I asked, wishing to change the subject.
"A long time, but the doctors did not give him up until the day before yesterday. They might have known at first that there was no hope for him. Why should there be any hope for him or for anyone? Why can't we all get out of this miserable world and be done with it?"
"Have many of the negroes gone away?" I asked.
"No, not many. We have hired most of them to work the land. I don't see much difference in them. They are as near no account as they can be."
"It will take them some time to adjust themselves to their freedom," I remarked.
"Freedom!" she repeated with a sneer. "They can never adjust themselves to it. They think it means a privilege to take whatever they can lay hands on."
Titine was in my mind, but I was afraid to ask about her. She had treated me with scorn when I was well dressed, and now I must be far below her contempt.