"What sign?" I stammered.
"De bride-sign on de ring-finger! Yaas, suh. An' I say, 'Whar yo' ring, Miss Dorry?' An' she 'low ain' nebber wore no ring. An' I say, 'Whar dat ring, Miss Dorry?'
"Den Miss Dorry look kinder queer, and rub de ghos'-ring on de bridal-finger.
"'What dat?' she 'low.
"'Dasser ghos'-ring, honey.'
"Den she rub an' rub, but, bless yo' heart, Mars' George! she dess natch'ly gwine wear dat pink ghos'-ring twill yo' slip de bride-ring on.... Mars' George! Honey! What de matter, chile?... Is you a-weepin', Mars' George?"
"Oh, Cato, Cato!" I choked, dropping my head on his shoulder.
"What dey do to mah l'il Mars' George?" he said, soothingly. "'Spec' some one done git saucy! Huh! Who care? Dar de sign! Dar de ghos'-ring! Mars' George, yo' is dess boun' to wed, suh! Miss Dorry, she dess boun' to wed, too--"
"But not with me, Cato, not with me. There's another man coming for Miss Dorry, Cato. She has promised him."
"Who dat?" he cried. "How come dishyere ghost-ring roun' yo' weddin'-finger?"