“Den I believe de debbil took possession of me body and soul. A week before my po’ gal was to be sol’, Misses’ child was born, and died in about an hour; at about de same time Mira gave birth to a son, too. In de ’citemen’ de idea come to me to change de babies, fer no one would know it, I being alone when de chil’ died, an’ de house wil’ fer fear misses would die. So I changed de babies, an’ tol’ Marse Livingston dat Mira’s boy was de dead one. So, honey, Aubrey is your own blood brother an’ you got to quit dat house mejuntly.”
“My brother!”
Dianthe stood over the old woman and shook her by the arm, with a look of utter horror that froze her blood. “My brothers! both those men!”
The old woman mumbled and groaned, then started up.
Aunt Hannah breathed hard once or twice. Minute after minute passed. From time to time she glanced at Dianthe, her hard, toil-worn hands strained at the arms of her chair as if to break them. Her mind seemed wavering as she crooned:
“My Mira’s children; by de lotus-lily on each leetle breast I claim them for de great Osiris, mighty god. Honey, hain’t you a flower on your breast?”
Dianthe bowed her head in assent, for speech had deserted her. Then old Aunt Hannah undid her snowy kerchief and her dress, and displayed to the terrified girl the perfect semblance of a lily cut, as it were, in shining ebony.
“Did each of Mira’s children have this mark?”
“Yes, honey; all of one blood!”
Dianthe staggered as though buffeted in the face. Blindly, as if in some hideous trance, reeling and stumbling, she fell. Cold and white as marble, she lay in the old woman’s arms, who thought her dead. “Better so,” she cried, and then laughed aloud, then kissed the poor, drawn face. But she was not dead.