“I heard she was sick. I heard you sent for the doctor.”
“Yes, 'm; dat I did—dat 's what I was gwine to tell you. I had a doctor to see her twice. I had two separate and indifferent physicians: fust Dr. Overall, an' den Marse Douglas. I could n' do no mo' 'n dat, now, could I?”
“Well, I don't know,” observed Mrs. Meriwether. “My son told me a week ago that she was sick. Did she get well?”
The old man shook his head solemnly.
“No, 'm; but she went mighty easy. Marse Douglas he eased her off. He is the bes' doctor I ever see to let 'em die easy.”
Mingled with her horror at his cold-blooded recital, a smile flickered about Mrs. Meriwether's mouth at this shot at her son, the doctor; but the old man looked absolutely innocent.
“Why did n 't you send for the doctor again?” she demanded.
“Well, m'm, I gin her two chances. I think dat was 'nough. I wuz right fond o' Sairey; but I declar' I 'd rather lost Sairey than to broke.”
“You would!” Mrs. Meriwether sat up and began to bristle. “Well, at least, you have the expense of her funeral; and I 'm glad of it,” she asserted with severity.
“Dat 's what I come over t' see you 'bout. I 'm gwine to give Sairey a fine fun'ral. I want you to let yo' cook cook me a cake an'—one or two more little things.”