“No, I did not,” rejoined Mrs. Page; “I thought it was you working all by yourself and came in to help, as I knew you wanted to go on the hike. But before you go, dear,” she added anxiously, “I want you to go down to Felia’s and see how she is. If she is not coming back by Monday you will have to hunt around for a washerwoman; the clothes can’t go another week.”
An hour later, Nathalie, delighted to think she could take a day off with a clear conscience, hurried in the direction of Ophelia’s little gray shanty; but to her surprise, as she came near the door she heard a loud wailing and the confused hum of several voices.
As she entered the stuffy parlor hung with gay colored prints and dingy-looking chromos, she found Ophelia seated in a rocking chair with her face buried in a gingham apron, wailing and crying hysterically. Pushing her way through the crowd of sympathizing friends, Nathalie grabbed the arm of a colored woman who stood by Felia’s side crying, “Oh, please, won’t you tell me what’s the matter?”
“Sure, Miss,” respectfully answered the woman, wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s little Rosy, she’s lost—we can’t find her—ah, honey, don’t take on so!” she ended, turning towards the grieving mother and giving her a caressing pat on the shoulder. “Surely some one will find her.”
Nathalie now stepped to Felia’s side and pulled her gently by the sleeve, determined to get some definite information about black Rosebud, as Dick called the little pickaninny who had often come to the house with her mother, and who, being a bright child, had become a prime favorite. “Ophelia, please tell me about your trouble!” insisted the girl. “Is Rosy surely lost?”
“She lost sure nuff, Missy, down at de bottom of de pond,” quavered Felia’s mother dismally, an aged negress standing by the side of her daughter, as she rolled up her eyes until the whites looked like saucers on a shelf. “I’se gwine to tell you de trufe—dat chile is drowned. Oh, I see her face a-shinin’ in de water—”
Her horrible prognostication as to Rosy’s woeful fate was terminated by her daughter’s renewed wails of anguish, as she again began to rock herself to and fro with redoubled force.
“Oh,” thought Nathalie, frowning angrily in the direction of the old mammy, “I do wish she would stop.” Then she cried, “Oh, Felia, don’t cry so—I am sure she will be found—perhaps she is at one of the neighbors’ houses, you know she is fond of visiting.”
There was such sympathetic concern in the girl’s voice that Felia desisted from her lamentations long enough to cry, “Oh, Miss Natty, she done go and get lost—she ain’t nowhere hereabouts!” Then in answer to further questioning she said that the child had been seen just before dark picking posies over in a meadow with several children, but when bedtime came she could not be found.
“Has any one looked for her?” demanded Nathalie, turning towards the group of colored women as poor Felia went back to her apron wailing pitifully, “I’se gwine promise yo’, Lord, if yo’ bring my baby back, I’ll never get mad with her again. I’ll promise sure—” but the rest of Felia’s prayer was lost as the women crowded around Nathalie and eagerly explained that Dan Washington, Paul Jones, and Abe Smith had searched the town for her. They had been up all night, but when morning came had to return to their jobs, and there was no one looking for her at that time.