That night, June was crouched, sobbing and bruised, behind the kitchen stove, when Creline came in on an errand for her mistress. Madame Joilet was obliged to leave the room for a few minutes, and the two were alone together. June crawled out from behind the stove. "I see him,—I see Massa Linkum, Creline."
"De Lord bress him foreber'n eber. Amen!" exclaimed Creline fervently, throwing up her old thin hands.
June crept a little nearer, and looked all around the room to see if the doors were shut.
"Creline, what's he done gone come down here fur? Am he de Messiah?"
"Bress yer soul, chile! don' ye know better'n dat ar?"
"Don' know nuffin," said June sullenly. "Neber knows nuffin; 'spects I neber's gwine to. Can' go out in de road to fine out,—she beat me. Can' ask nuffin,—she jest gib me a push down cellar. O Creline, der's sech rats down dar now,—dar is!"
"Yer poor critter!" said Creline, with great contempt for her ignorance. "Why, Massa Linkum, eberybody knows 'bout he. He's done gone made we free,—whole heap on we."
"Free!" echoed June, with puzzled eyes.
"Laws, yes, chile; 'pears like yer's drefful stupid. Yer don' b'long—" Creline lowered her voice to a mysterious whisper, and looked carefully at the closed door,—"yer don' b'long to Missus Jolly no more dan she b'long to you, an' dat's de trufe now, 'case Massa Linkum say so,—God bress him!"
Just then Madame Joilet came back.