She was the old woman who had greeted Preston so affectionately on our arrival.
Turning to her as he tendered me a chair, Joe said:
'Mudder, dis am Mr. Kirke.'
Making a feeble effort to rise, and reaching out her trembling hand she exclaimed, in a voice just above a whisper:
'You'm welcome yere, right welcome, sar.'
'Thank you, aunty. Pray keep your seat; don't rise on my account.'
'Tank you, massa Kirke, fur comin' yere. It'm bery good ob you. Ole missy lub you, sar; you'm so good ter massa Robert. He'm my own chile, sar!'
This was undoubtedly a figure of speech, for the old woman's skin was altogether too black not to have given a trifle of its shading to the complexion of her children. It was not only black, but blue black, and of that peculiar hue which is seen only on the faces of native Africans.
Seeing that she had relinquished smoking, I said:
'Never mind me, aunty; I smoke myself sometimes.'