“Singin’? Me singin’?” He looked so distressed that Margaret regretted her suspicion. “No’m; yo’ didn’t hear me singin’; no’m, I don’ sing. Mus’ have been some of them lazy, triflin’ niggers at ther stable, Miss Margey. I got somethin’ better to do than be a-singin’.”
“Have the gentlemen been gone long?”
“’Bout a half-hour, miss. I reckon they down by ther creek now; I heard they guns a-poppin’ bit ago.”
“Mamma’s tray is ready and you can take it up now. Are the lamps ready?”
“Yes’m; they’s on ther table.” He gave a final flourish of the broom, looked scathingly at the obdurate thread and moved toward the door. Margaret, who had been looking out across the sunlit lawn with smiling eyes, turned to him.
“Uncle, has Mister Phil said anything to you——” She paused at a loss. “I mean do you think he has noticed anything different from—from what he was used to?”
Uncle Casper rubbed his chin reflectively and brought his grizzled eyebrows together.
“No’m; least he ain’t said nothin’ to me. Don’ see how he could notice anythin’ diff’rent, Miss Margey. You ’n’ me’s been mighty ca’ful, ain’t we?”
“Yes, I reckon we have, Uncle; but—but—— Oh, I do hope he won’t find out that we’re—not so rich as we were!”
“No’m; ain’t no use in his worryin’ ’bout it, is they? Reckon they’s a heap o’ things fo’ him ter worry ’bout anyhow; reckon bein’ edicated’s mighty tryin’ sort o’ process—’rithmatic—Latin—French—grammar—depo’tment—all they lessons mus’ be pow’ful wearin’ on him. But don’ yo’ trouble, Miss Margey, we’ll git on all right. Hens is layin’ right nice, Cicely ’lows, an’——” He paused to laugh softly and shake his head. “Reckon, though, if that they Mister No’th stays very long they hens’ll git discouraged; he done eat fo’ aigs fo’ his breakfas’ this mawnin’!”