“Wonder what the gal ’s in black fer?” observed a lounger.
“My nigger cook Sukey,” said the landlord, “told me that Gin’ral Brereton told her the ole lady wuz mortal sick o’ the small-pox an’ that when he went aboard the pest-ship, she wuz so weak it did n’t seem like she could be moved, but he an’ the doctor got her safe ashore, an’ when he last hearn, ‘bout the first o’ the year, she wuz gainin’.”
The publican rose and went forward as the van stopped in front of his door. “Glad tew see yer, squire,” he said, “an’ yer, too, Miss Janice. Seems most like ole times. Hope nuthin ’s wrong with Miss Meredith?”
The squire slowly and heavily got down from the box seat. “We have her body in the waggon,” he said wearily and sadly.
“I vum, but that ’s too bad!” exclaimed the landlord, and, for want of words of comfort, he hesitatingly held out his hand, but recollecting himself, he was drawing it back, when Mr. Meredith, forgetful of rank, caught and squeezed it.
“She never really rallied,” went on the squire, with tears in his eyes, “and though she lived on through the winter, she did n’t have the strength to mend. She died three weeks ago, and we have come back here to bury her.”
“Naow yer an’ Miss Janice come right intew my place, an I’ll fix yer both ez comfortable ez I kin,” invited the publican, warmly, once again forgetting himself so far as to pat Mr. Meredith on the back. Then as he helped Janice down, he shouted, “Abram, mix a noggin o’ sling, from the bestest, an’ tell Sukey that she’s wanted right off, no matter what she’s doin’.”
The last direction was needless, for the slave, in some way informed of the arrival, had Janice in her arms ere the landlord well completed his speech, and was carrying more than leading her into the hotel and up the stairs to the room reserved for people of quality only, where she lifted her on to the bed and with her arms still clasped about the girl wept over her, half in misery, and half in an almost savage joy, while repeating again and again, “Oh, my missy, my Missy Janice, my young missy, my pooty young missy, come back to ole Sukey.”
“Oh, Sukey,” sobbed Janice, “but mommy is dead.”
“Doan young missy pine,” begged the slave. “De Lord he know best, an’ he bring my chile, dat I dun take care ob from de day he dun gib her, back to ole black Sukey.”