“‘Tain’t cost me nuffin, Miss Courage,” Joe said, almost angrily. “Oh, I des hope for Brevet’s sake dey won’t be sayin’ any such foolish t’ing as dat. I happen ter know dat Brevet would neber get over it if he thought he was ‘sponsible for me lyin’ here in bed. No, Miss Courage, dat paralysis des happened ter come. I want it ter be so understood. I’d had the queerest numb sort o’ feelin’s creepin’ over me a whole week ‘fo’ I took dat plunge in de riber—but—-but, what I sent for you for am dis: I’se had a heap o’ time, lyin’ heah, an’ I’se been usin’ my eyes, an’ sure huff I hab an idea. You know your Sylvy? Well, she tol’ me dat day when ole Colonel Anderson an’ all of you were at Arlington, an’ we was clearin’ up de dinner dishes, dat she been ris up in an institution in Brooklyn, an’ so far as she knew she didn’t hab a relashun in de worl’. Now, do you happen ter know, Miss Courage, who took Sylvy to dat ‘sylum?”
“No, Joe; and I’m quite sure Sylvia once told me that nobody knew; but if you wish, I can write and make some inquiry. But why do you want to know, Joe?”
“Why, case I b’lieve it isn’t de mos’ impossible t’ing in de worl’ dat Mammy and Sylvy is related,” and Joe lowered his voice to an almost imperceptible whisper.
“But whatever do you found that upon?” Courage asked, eagerly.
“Observation, Miss Courage, an’ what you might call human probability,” (Joe was perfectly delighted to find two such fine long words at his command) “an’ as I tol’ you, I’se been usin’ my eyes lyin’ heah, an’ dey has little ways an’ gestures, Mammy and Sylvy, common to bof of ‘em. Den you know Mammy had a daughter sol’ way from her des befo’ de wah, an’ as Sylvy ain’t no idea what name she was born to, ‘tain’t impossible is it, dat she should be Mammy’s gran’chile?”
“No, it isn’t impossible, Joe, but I must honestly say I do not think it probable. Just think how very little you really have to build upon.”
“Mighty little, I grant you, Miss Courage, ‘cepting dose little ways an’ gestures; but you’ll write, won’t you, case there ain’t the least harm in writing is there?”
“Yes, indeed I will, Joe, this very night, but you mustn’t hang too many hopes upon it, so as not to be too much disappointed.”
“Dey’s hung dere already. Miss Courage,” said incorrigible Joe, “an’ I’se not goin’ter take ‘em down till I has ter.”
“All right,” laughed Courage. “May I call Mammy back now? for I should like to see her for awhile before I go home.”