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.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Meriwether, relenting somewhat; “I will tell her to do so. I will tell her to make you a good cake. When do you want it?”
“Thank you m'm. Yes, m'm; ef you 'll gi' me a right good-sized cake—an'—a loaf or two of flour-bread—an'—a ham, I 'll be very much obleeged to you. I heah she 's a mighty good cook?”
“She is,” said Mrs. Meriwether; “the best I 've had in a long time.” She had not caught the tone of interrogation in his voice, nor seen the shrewd look in his face, as I had done. Jabez appeared well satisfied.