Wolfe went out smiling—understanding the lad's scruples well enough, perhaps. As he opened the door, Mr. Gumbo entered it; almost forgetting to bow to the gentleman, profusely courteous as he was on ordinary occasions,—his eyes glaring round, his great mouth grinning—himself in a state of such high excitement and delight that his master remarked his condition.
“What, Gum? What has happened to thee? Hast thou got a new sweetheart?”
No, Gum had not got no new sweetheart, master.
“Give me my coat. What has brought thee back?”
Gum grinned prodigiously. “I have seen a ghost, mas'r!” he said.
“A ghost! and whose, and where?”
“Whar? Saw him at Madame Bernstein's house. Come with him here in the coach! He downstairs now with Colonel Lambert!” Whilst Gumbo is speaking, as he is putting on his master's coat, his eyes are rolling, his head is wagging, his hands are trembling, his lips are grinning.
“Ghost—what ghost?” says Harry, in a strange agitation. “Is anybody—is—my mother come?”
“No, sir; no, Master Harry!” Gumbo's head rolls nearly off its violent convolutions, and his master, looking oddly at him, flings the door open, and goes rapidly down the stair.
He is at the foot of it, just as a voice within the little office, of which the door is open, is saying, “and for doing so, I say thank you, and God bless you, in my mother's name and mine.”