For many mornings after this I listened to his prayers, which grew more and more earnest and importunate. I could not think he had done any harm with his own will. He must have been more sinned against than sinning.
He brought me a shawl one cool evening as if it were my death-warrant, and I said, in the sepulchral tone that wins confidence, "Pedro, do you always say your prayers when you are alone?"
"Yes, miss, 'board this ship."
"What's the matter with, this ship?"
"I s'pose you don't have no faith in ghosts?"
"Not much."
"White folks mostly don't," said Pedro with aggravating meekness, and turned into his pantry.
I followed him to the door, and stood in it so that he had no escape: "What has that to do with your prayers?"
"This cabin has got a ghost in it."
I looked over my shoulder into the dusk, and shivered a little, which was not lost on Pedro. He grew more solemn if possible than before: "I see her 'most every morning, and if my back is to the door, I see her all the same. She don't never touch me, but I keep at the prayers for fear she will."