There was a little pause. Julia, still blushing, adjusted an imaginary hair-pin. The negro looked sheepishly from one to the other. The Squire repeated his question.
“Who was he talking to, Jule?”
“Nobody but me,” said the young lady, growing redder. Her embarrassment was not lessened by an involuntary “eh—eh,” from the negro. Squire Fambrough raised his eyes heavenwards and allowed both his heavy hands to drop helplessly by his side.
“What was he talkin’ about?” The old man spoke with apparent humility.
“N-o-t-h-i-n-g,” said Julia, demurely, looking at her pink finger-nails. “He just asked me if I thought it would rain, and I told him I didn’t know; and then he said the spring was coming on very rapidly, and I said, ‘Yes, I thought it was.’ And then he had found a bunch of violets and asked me if I would accept them, and I said, ‘Thank you.’”
“Land of the livin’ Moses!” exclaimed Squire Fambrough, lifting his hands above his head and allowing them to fall heavily again. “And they call this war!”
“Yessum!” The negro’s tone was triumphant. “Dat sholy wuz Marse Dave Henry. War er no war, dat wuz him. Dat des de way he goes ’mongst de ladies. He gi’um candy yit, let ’lone flowers. Shoo! You can’t tell me nothin’ ’tall ’bout Marse Dave Henry.”
“What are you wanderin’ ’round here in the woods for?” asked the Squire. His tone was somewhat severe. “Did anybody tell you he was here?”
“No, suh!” replied Tuck. “Dey tol’ me back dar at de camps dat I’d 78 fin’ ’im out on de picket line, an’ when I got dar dey tol’ me he wuz out dis a-way, whar dey wuz some sharp-shootin’ gwine on, but I ain’t foun’ ’im yit.”
“Ain’t you been with him all the time?” The Squire was disposed to treat the negro as a witness for the defence.