“Yas’m, I oughter stay, Miss No’th,” he assured her, with a faint smile. His eyes wandered to the window.
“Did dey ketch ’im?” he questioned suddenly. “Did dey ketch Arch’bal’, Miss No’th?”
“No,” she answered, a sudden hot color rising up in her cheeks. “Archibald’s gone away; they can’t find him. But he—he needn’t have. They found out it was a mistake; he wasn’t the one they wanted.”
“Mis’ Simons oughter ’a’ been yere—ain’t she?” he went on dreamily. “She wouldn’ nuver ’a’ let ’em—done ’im—dat-a-way! Would she, Miss No’th?”
“No!” she answered, her voice startling him out of his dream, while the color deepened painfully in her cheeks. “Remember always, Ezekiel, she wouldn’t have let them! And remember”—her voice softened—“she’s your friend, because—she’s of the best!” Miss North’s eyes wandered dreamily now, and she seemed to have forgotten her audience. “Remember, there are always the others, too—the coarse and the brutal, who are only glad of an excuse—and they can stamp their whole people—very coarsely. But remember, Ezekiel,” her eyes gazed fixedly ahead, “it isn’t the fault of the best ones; it’s the fault of the worst—who always snatch at an excuse—and who will—just as long as they’re allowed.”
Her eyes fell on Ezekiel again, who was looking at her in wide perplexity.
“What is it, Ezekiel?” she smiled. “Oh, yes, I was just saying—about Mrs. Simons—she was always very good to you, wasn’t she, Ezekiel?”
“Yas’m, Mis’ Simons cert’nly wuz good ter me.” Again it was Ezekiel’s eyes that dreamed with languid, velvety moistness.
“Remember—that she’s—one of the best, Ezekiel!”
“Yas’m,” came the gentle response; “couldn’ be nobuddy no better’n—Mis’ Simons!”