The wine had gone to make good cheer when a Federal regiment had lighted its campfires on the Estridge lawn, but old Ike had heard it too often before and knew his business too well to give any sign.
“I want you to take some things up to Miss Clarinda Randolph to-morrow, too, and I’ve got a silver snuffbox for Thomas Daniels. I can’t make many presents this year. I’ve got to devote my money to the interest of your young masters.”
There was a catch in the Negro’s voice as he replied, “Yes, Mas’ Estridge, dey needs it mos’, dey needs it mos’.”
The old colonel’s spell of talking seldom lasted long, and now he fell to eating in silence; but his face was the face of one in a dream. Ike waited on him until he had done, and then, clearing the things away, slipped out, leaving him to sit and muse in his chair by the window.
“Look hyeah, Lize,” said the old servant, as he entered his wife’s cabin a little later. “Pleggoned ef I didn’t come purt’ nigh brekin’ down dis mo’nin’.”
“Wha’ ’s de mattah wif you, Ike?”
“Jes’ a-listenin’ to ol’ Mas’ a-sittin’ dah a-talkin’ lak it was de ol’ times,—a-sendin’ messages to ol’ Miss Randolph, dat’s been daid too long to talk about, an’ to Mas’ Tom Daniels, dat went acrost de wateh ruther ’n tek de oaf o’ ’legiance.”
“Oomph,” said the old lady, wiping her eyes on her cotton apron.
“Den he expectin’ Mas’ Bob an’ Mas’ Stant home to-morrer. ’Clah to goodness, when he say dat I lak to hollahed right out.”