"I reckon two years with Harry was worth about that much," he returned grimly. "Then there's another gift of two hundred thousand dollars and this house and plantation. Whom do you think that's for?"
"Helen?"
"Helen!" he raised his hand in threatening anger. "I might rot here for all she cares. No—no—but then—I'll not tell you—I—ah—" A spasm of pain shot across his face, and he lay back white and still. Abruptly he sat up again and peered down the oaks. "Hush!" he gasped. "Who's that?"
"I don't know—it's a girl—I—"
He gripped her till she winced.
"My God—it walks—like my wife—I tell you—she held her head so—who is it?" He half rose.
"Oh, father, it's nobody but Emma—little Emma—Bertie's child—the mulatto girl. She's a nurse now, and I asked to have her come and attend you."
"Oh," he said, "oh—" He looked at the girl curiously. "Come here." He peered into her white young face. "Do you know me?"
The girl shrank away from him.
"Yes, sir."