“Too far that one place, now. Me going to die here. Old man Jack bury me at Bimbalong. My mother sit down there, long o’ waterhole—where you see that big coubah tree. Misser Redgrave!” she said, with sudden earnestness, trying to raise herself; “you tell me one thing?”
“What is it, my poor girl?”
“You tell me”—here she gazed imploringly at him, with a look of dread and doubt piteous to mark in her uplifted face—“where you think I go when I die?”
“Go!” answered Jack, rather confused by this direct appeal to his assumed superior knowledge of the future. “Why, to heaven, I believe, Wildduck. We shall all go there, I hope, some day.”
“I see Miss Maudie there; she go, I know. You go too; you always kind to poor black fellow.”
“I hope and trust we shall all go there some day, if we’re good,” said he, unconsciously recalling his good mother’s early assurances on that head. “Didn’t Miss Maudie tell you so.”
“Miss Maudie tell me about white man’s God—teach me prayer every night—say, ‘Our Father.’ You think God care about poor black girl?”
“Yes, I do; you belong to Him, Wildduck, just the same as white girl. You say prayer to Him. He take care of you, same as Miss Maudie tell you.”
“She tell me she very sorry for poor black girl. She say, why you drink brandy, Wildduck? that wicked. So me try—no use—can’t help it. Black fellow all the same as little child. Big one stupid.”
“White fellow stupid too, Wildduck,” said John Redgrave; “you have been no worse than plenty of others who ought to have known better. But perhaps you won’t die after all.”