"Now, Harry, was ever such a smart wife as I am? Only think, besides all the rest that I've done, I've ironed your white linen suit, complete! Now, go put it on. Not in there! not in there!" she said, pushing him away from the door. "You can't go there, yet. You'll do well enough out here."
And away she went, singing through the garden walks; and the song, floating back behind her, seemed like an odor brushed from the flowers. The refrain came rippling in at the door—
"Me think not what to-morrow bring;Me happy, so me sing!"
"Me think not what to-morrow bring;Me happy, so me sing!"
"Me think not what to-morrow bring;Me happy, so me sing!"
"Me think not what to-morrow bring;
Me happy, so me sing!"
"Poor little thing!" said Harry to himself; "why should I try to teach her anything?"
In a few minutes she was back again, her white apron thrown over her arm, and blossoms of yellow jessamine, spikes of blue lavender, and buds of moss-roses, peeping out from it. She skipped gayly along, and deposited her treasure on the ironing-table; then, with a zealous, bustling earnestness, which characterized everything she did, she began sorting them into two bouquets, alternately talking and singing, as she did so,—
"Come on, ye rosy hours,All joy and gladness bring!"
"Come on, ye rosy hours,All joy and gladness bring!"
"Come on, ye rosy hours,All joy and gladness bring!"
"Come on, ye rosy hours,
All joy and gladness bring!"
"You see, Harry, you're going to have a bouquet to put into the button-hole of that coat. It will make you look so handsome! There, now—there, now,—
'We'll strew the way with flowers,And merrily, merrily sing.'"
'We'll strew the way with flowers,And merrily, merrily sing.'"
'We'll strew the way with flowers,And merrily, merrily sing.'"
'We'll strew the way with flowers,
And merrily, merrily sing.'"
Suddenly stopping, she looked at him archly, and said, "You can't tell, now, what I'm doing all this for!"
"There's never any telling what you women do anything for."
"Do hear him talk—so pompous! Well, sir, it's for your birthday, now. Aha! you thought, because I can't keep the day of the month, that I didn't know anything about it; but I did. And I have put down now a chalk-mark every day, for four weeks, right under where I keep my ironing-account, so as to be sure of it. And I've been busy about it ever since two o'clock this morning. And now—there, the tea-kettle is boiling!"—and away she flew to the door.
"Oh, dear me!—dear me, now!—I've killed myself, now, I have!" she cried, holding up one of her hands, and flirting it up in the air. "Dear me! who knew it was so hot?"
"I should think a little woman that is so used to the holdermighthave known it," said Harry, as he caressed the little burnt hand.
"Come, now, let me carry it for you," said Harry, "and I'll make the tea, if you'll let me go into that mysterious room."
"Indeed, no, Harry—I'm going to do everything myself;" and, forgetting the burnt finger, Lisette was off in a moment,and back in a moment with a shining teapot in her hand, and the tea was made. And at last the mysterious door opened, and Lisette stood with her eyes fixed upon Harry, to watch the effect.
"Superb!—magnificent!—splendid! Why, this is good enough for a king! And wheredidyou get all these things?" said Harry.
"Oh, out of our garden—all but the peaches. Those old Mist gave me—they come from Florida. There, now, you laughed at me, last summer, when I set those strawberry-vines, and made all sorts of fun of me. And what do you think now?"
"Think! I think you're a wonderful little thing—a perfect witch."
"Come, now, let's sit down, then—you there, and I here." And, opening the door of the bird-cage, which hung in the lamarque rose-bush, "Little Button shall come, too."
Button, a bright yellow canary, with a smart black tuft upon his head, seemed to understand his part in the little domestic scene perfectly; for he stepped obediently upon the finger which was extended to him, and was soon sitting quite at his ease on the mossy edge of one of the dishes, pecking at the strawberries.
"And now, do tell me," said Lisette, "all about Miss Nina. How does she look?"
"Pretty and smart as ever," said Harry. "Just the same witchy, wilful ways with her."
"And did she show you her dresses?"
"Oh, yes; the whole."
"Oh, do tell me about them, Harry—do!"
"Well, there's a lovely pink gauze, covered with spangles, to be worn over white satin."
"With flounces?" said Lisette, earnestly.
"With flounces."
"How many?"
"Really, I don't remember."
"Don't remember how many flounces? Why, Harry, how stupid! Say, Harry, don't you suppose she will let me come and look at her things?"
"Oh, yes, dear, I don't doubt she will; and that will save my making a gazette of myself."
"Oh, when will you take me there, Harry?"
"Perhaps to-morrow, dear. And now," said Harry, "that you have accomplished your surprise upon me, I have a surprise, in return, for you. You can't guess, now, what Miss Nina brought for me."
"No, indeed! What?" said Lisette, springing up; "do tell me—quick."
"Patience—patience!" said Harry, deliberately fumbling in his pocket, amusing himself with her excited air. But who should speak the astonishment and rapture which widened Lisette's dark eyes, when the watch was produced? She clapped her hands, and danced for joy, to the imminent risk of upsetting the table, and all the things on it.
"I do think we are the most fortunate people—you and I, Harry! Everything goes just as we want it to—doesn't it, now?"
Harry's assent to this comprehensive proposition was much less fervent than suited his little wife.
"Now, what's the matter with you? What goes wrong? Why don't you rejoice as I do?" said she, coming and seating herself down upon his knee. "Come, now, you've been working too hard, I know. I'm going to sing to you, now; you want something to cheer you up." And Lisette took down her banjo, and sat down in the doorway under the arch of lamarque roses, and began thrumming gayly.
"This is the nicest little thing, this banjo!" she said; "I wouldn't change it for all the guitars in the world. Now, Harry, I'm going to sing something specially for you." And Lisette sung:—
"What are the joys of white man, here,What are his pleasures, say?He great, he proud, he haughty fineWhile I my banjo play:He sleep all day, he wake all night;He full of care, his heart no light;He great deal want, he little get;He sorry, so he fret."Me envy not the white man here,Though he so proud and gay;He great, he proud, he haughty fine,While I my banjo play:Me work all day, me sleep all night;Me have no care, me heart is light;Me think not what to-morrow bring;Me happy, so me sing."
"What are the joys of white man, here,What are his pleasures, say?He great, he proud, he haughty fineWhile I my banjo play:He sleep all day, he wake all night;He full of care, his heart no light;He great deal want, he little get;He sorry, so he fret."Me envy not the white man here,Though he so proud and gay;He great, he proud, he haughty fine,While I my banjo play:Me work all day, me sleep all night;Me have no care, me heart is light;Me think not what to-morrow bring;Me happy, so me sing."
"What are the joys of white man, here,What are his pleasures, say?He great, he proud, he haughty fineWhile I my banjo play:He sleep all day, he wake all night;He full of care, his heart no light;He great deal want, he little get;He sorry, so he fret.
"What are the joys of white man, here,
What are his pleasures, say?
He great, he proud, he haughty fine
While I my banjo play:
He sleep all day, he wake all night;
He full of care, his heart no light;
He great deal want, he little get;
He sorry, so he fret.
"Me envy not the white man here,Though he so proud and gay;He great, he proud, he haughty fine,While I my banjo play:Me work all day, me sleep all night;Me have no care, me heart is light;Me think not what to-morrow bring;Me happy, so me sing."
"Me envy not the white man here,
Though he so proud and gay;
He great, he proud, he haughty fine,
While I my banjo play:
Me work all day, me sleep all night;
Me have no care, me heart is light;
Me think not what to-morrow bring;
Me happy, so me sing."
Lisette rattled the strings of the banjo, and sang with such a hearty abandon of enjoyment that it was a comfort to look at her. One would have thought that a bird's soul put into a woman's body would have sung just so.
"There," she said, throwing down her banjo, and seating herself on her husband's knee, "do you know I think you are like white man in the song? I should like to know what is the matter with you. I can see plain enough when you are not happy; but I don't see why."
"Oh, Lisette, I have very perplexing business to manage," said Harry. "Miss Nina is a dear, good little mistress, but she doesn't know anything about accounts, or money; and here she has brought me home a set of bills to settle, and I'm sure I don't know where the money is to be got from. It's hard work to make the old place profitable in our days. The ground is pretty much worked up; it doesn't bear the crops it used to. And, then, our people are so childish, they don't, a soul of them, care how much they spend, or how carelessly they work. It's very expensive keeping up such an establishment. You know the Gordons must be Gordons. Things can't be done now as some other families would do them; and, then, those bills which Miss Nina brings from New York are perfectly frightful."
"Well, Harry, what are you going to do?" said Lisette, nestling down close on his shoulder. "You always know how to do something."
"Why, Lisette, I shall have to do what I've done two or three times before—take the money that I have saved, to pay these bills—our freedom-money, Lisette."
"Oh, well, then, don't worry. We can get it again, you know. Why, you know, Harry, you can make a good deal with your trade, and one thing and another that you do; and, then, as for me, why, you know, my ironing, and my muslins, how celebrated they are. Come, don't worry one bit; we shall get on nicely."
"Ah! But, Lisette, all this pretty house of ours, garden, and everything, is only built on air, after all, till we are free. Any accident can take it from us. Now, there's Miss Nina; she is engaged, she tells me, to two or three lovers, as usual."
"Engaged, is she?" said Lisette, eagerly, female curiosity getting the better of every other consideration; "she always did have lovers, just, you know, as I used to."
"Yes; but, Lisette, she will marry, some time, and what a thing that would be for you and me! On her husband will depend all my happiness for all my life. He may set her against me; he may not like me. Oh, Lisette! I've seen trouble enough coming of marriages; and I was hoping, you see, that before that time came the money for my freedom would all be paid in, and I should be my own man. But, now, here it is. Just as the sum is almost made up, I must pay out five hundred dollars of it, and that throws us back two or three years longer. And what makes me feel the most anxious is, that I'm pretty sure Miss Nina will marry one of these lovers before long."
"Why, what makes you think so, Harry?"
"Oh, I've seen girls before now, Lisette, and I know the signs."
"What does she do? What does she say? Tell me, now, Harry."
"Oh, well, she runs on abusing the man, after her sort; and she's so very earnest and positive in telling me she don't like him."
"Just the way I used to do about you, Harry, isn't it?"
"Besides," said Harry, "I know, by the kind of character she gives of him, that she thinks of him very differently from what she ever did of any man before. Miss Nina little knows, when she is rattling about her beaux, what I'm thinking of. I'm saying, all the while, to myself, 'Is that man going to be my master?' and this Clayton, I'm very sure, is going to be my master."
"Well, isn't he a good man?"
"Shesayshe is; but there's never any saying what good men will do, never. Good men think it right sometimes to do the strangest things. This man may alter the whole agreement between us,—he will have a right to do it, if he is herhusband; he may refuse to let me buy myself; and, then, all the money that I've paid will go for nothing."
"But, certainly, Harry, Miss Nina will never consent to such a thing."
"Lisette, Miss Nina is one thing, but Mrs. Clayton may be quite another thing. I've seen allthat, over and over again. I tell you, Lisette, that we who live on other people's looks and words, we watch and think a great deal! Ah! we come to be very sharp, I can tell you. The more Miss Nina has liked me, the less her husband may like me; don't you know that?"
"No; Harry, you don't dislike people I like."
"Child, child, that's quite another thing."
"Well, then, Harry, if you feel so bad about it, what makes you pay this money for Miss Nina? She don't know anything about it; she don't ask you to. I don't believe she would want you to, if she did know it. Just go and pay it in, and have your freedom-papers made out. Why don't you tell her all about it?"
"No, I can't, Lisette. I've had the care of her all her life, and I've made it as smooth as I could for her, and I won't begin to trouble her now. Do you know, too, that I'm afraid that, perhaps, if she knew all about it, she wouldn't do the right thing. There's never any knowing, Lisette.Now, you see, I say to myself, 'Poor little thing! she doesn't know anything about accounts, and she don't know how I feel.' But, if I shouldtellher, and she shouldn't care, and act as I've seen women act, why, then, you know I couldn't think so any more. I don'tbelieveshe would mind you; but, then, I don't like to try."
"Harry, what does make you love her so much?"
"Don't you know, Lisette, that Master Tom was a dreadful bad boy, always wilful and wayward, almost broke his father's heart; and he was always ugly and contrary to her? I'm sure I don't know why; for she was a sweet little thing, and she loves him now, ugly as he is, and he is the most selfish creature I ever saw. And, as for Miss Nina, she isn't selfish—she is only inconsiderate. But I've known her do for him, over and over, just what I do for her, giving him her money and her jewels to help him out of a scrape. But, then, to be sure, it all comes upon me, at last, which makes it all the more aggravating. Now,Lisette, I'm going to tell you something, but you mustn't tell anybody. Nina Gordon is my sister!"
"Harry!"
"Yes, Lisette, you may well open your eyes," said Harry, rising involuntarily; "I'm Colonel Gordon's oldest son! Let me have the comfort of saying it once, if I never do again."
"Harry, who told you?"
"Hetold me, Lisette—he, himself, told me, when he was dying, and charged me always to watch over her; and I have done it! I never told Miss Nina; I wouldn't have her told for the world. It wouldn't make her love me; more likely it would turn her against me. I've seen many a man sold for nothing else but looking too much like his father, or his brothers and sisters. I was given to her, and my sister and my mother went out to Mississippi with Miss Nina's aunt."
"I never heard you speak of this sister, Harry. Was she pretty?"
"Lisette, she was beautiful, she was graceful, and she had real genius. I've heard many singers on the stage that could not sing, with all their learning, as she did by nature."
"Well, what became of her?"
"Oh, what becomes of such women always, among us! Nursed, and petted, and caressed; taught everything elegant, nothing solid. Why, the woman meant well enough that had the care of her,—Mrs. Stewart, Colonel Gordon's sister,—but she couldn't prevent her son's wanting her, and taking her, for his mistress; and when she died there she was."
"Well."
"When George Stewart had lived with her two or three years, he was taken with small-pox. You know what perfect horror that always creates. None of his white acquaintances and friends would come near his plantation; the negroes were all frightened to death, as usual; overseer ran off. Well, then Cora Gordon's blood came up; she nursed him all through that sickness. What's more, she had influence to keep order on the place; got the people to getting the cotton crops themselves, so that when the overseer came sneaking back, things hadn't all gone to ruin, as they might have done. Well, the young fellow had more in him than some of them do; for when he got wellhe left his plantation, took her up to Ohio, and married her, and lived with her there."
"Why didn't he live with her on his plantation?" said Lisette.
"He couldn't have freed her there; it's against the laws. But, lately, I've got a letter from her saying that he had died and left to her and her son all his property on the Mississippi."
"Why, she will be rich, won't she?"
"Yes, if she gets it. But there's no knowing how that will be; there are fifty ways of cheating her out of it, I suppose. But, now, as to Miss Nina's estate, you don't know how I feel about it. I was trusted with it, and trusted with her. She never has known, more than a child, where the money came from, or went to; and it shan't be said that I've brought the estate in debt, for the sake of getting my own liberty. If I have one pride in life, it is to give it up to Miss Nina's husband in good order. But, then, thetroubleof it, Lisette! The trouble of getting anything like decent work from these creatures; the ways that I have to turn and twist to get round them, and manage them, to get anything done. They hate me; they are jealous of me. Lisette, I'm just like the bat in the fable; I'm neither bird nor beast. How often I've wished that I was a good, honest, black nigger, like Uncle Pomp! Then I should know what I was; but, now, I'm neither one thing nor another. I come just near enough to the condition of the white to look into it, to enjoy it, and want everything that I see. Then, the way I've been educated makes it worse. The fact is, that when the fathers of such as we feel any love for us, it isn't like the love they have for their white children. They are half-ashamed of us; they are ashamed to show their love, if they have it; and, then, there's a kind of remorse and pity about it, which they make up to themselves by petting us. They load us with presents and indulgences. They amuse themselves with us while we are children, and play off all our passions as if we were instruments to be played on. If we show talent and smartness, we hear some one say, aside, 'It's rather a pity, isn't it?' or, 'He is too smart for his place.' Then, we have all the family blood and the family pride; and what to do with it? I feel that I am a Gordon. I feel in my very heart that I'm like Colonel Gordon—I know I am, and, sometimes, I know I look like him, and that's one reason why Tom Gordon always hated me; and, then, there's another thing, the hardest of all, to have a sister like Miss Nina, to feel sheismy sister, and never dare to say a word of it! She little thinks, when she plays and jokes with me, sometimes, how I feel. I have eyes and senses; I can compare myself with Tom Gordon. I know henever wouldlearn anything at any of the schools he was put to; and I know that when his tutors used to teach me, how much faster I got along than he did. And yet he must have all the position, and all the respect; and, then, Miss Nina so often says to me, by way of apology, when she puts up with his ugliness, 'Ah! well, you know, Harry, he is the only brother I have got in the world!' Isn't it too bad? Colonel Gordon gave me every advantage of education, because I think he meant me for just this place which I fill. Miss Nina was his pet. He was wholly absorbed in her, and he was frightened at Tom's wickedness; and so he left me bound to the estate in this way, only stipulating that I should buy myself on favorable terms before Miss Nina's marriage. She has always been willing enough. I might have taken any and every advantage of her inconsiderateness. And Mr. John Gordon has been willing, too, and has been very kind about it, and has signed an agreement as guardian, and Miss Nina has signed it too, that, in case of her death, or whatever happened, I'm to have my freedom on paying a certain sum, and I have got his receipts for what I have paid. So that's tolerably safe. Lisette, I had meant never to have been married till I was a free man; but, somehow, you bewitched me into it. I did very wrong."
"Oh, pshaw! pshaw!" interrupted Lisette. "I an't going to hear another word of this talk! What's the use? We shall do well enough. Everything will come out right,—you see if it don't, now. I was always lucky, and I always shall be."
The conversation was here interrupted by a loud whooping, and a clatter of horse's heels.
"What's that?" said Harry, starting to the window. "As I live, now, if there isn't that wretch of a Tomtit, going off with that horse! How came he here? He will ruin him! Stop there! hallo!" he exclaimed, running out of doors after Tomtit.
Tomtit, however, only gave a triumphant whoop, and disappeared among the pine-trees.
"Well, I should like to know what sent him here!" said Harry, walking up and down, much disturbed.
"Oh, he's only going round through the grove; he will be back again," said Lisette; "never fear. Isn't he a handsome little rogue?"
"Lisette, you never can see trouble anywhere!" said Harry, almost angrily.
"Ah! yes I do," said Lisette, "when you speak in that tone! Please don't, Harry! What should you want me to see trouble for?"
"I don't know, you little thing," said Harry, stroking her head fondly.
"Ah, there comes the little rascal, just as I knew he would!" said Lisette. "He only wanted to take a little race; he hasn't hurt the horse;" and, tripping lightly out, she caught the reins, just as Tomtit drove up to the gate; and it seemed but a moment before he was over in the garden, with his hands full of flowers.
"Stop, there, you young rascal, and tell me what sent you here!" said Harry, seizing him, and shaking him by the shoulder.
"Laws, Massa Harry, I wants to get peaches, like other folks," said the boy, peeping roguishly in at the window, at the tea-table.
"And he shall have a peach, too," said Lisette, "and some flowers, if he'll be a good boy, and not tread on my borders."
Tomtit seized greedily at the peach she gave him, and, sitting flat down where he stood, and throwing the flowers on the ground beside him, began eating it with an earnestness of devotion as if his whole being were concentrated in the act. The color was heightened in his brown cheek by the exercise, and, with his long, drooping curls and eyelashes, he looked a very pretty centre to the flower-piece which he had so promptly improvised.
"Ah, how pretty he is!" said Lisette, touching Harry's elbow. "I wish he was mine!"
"You'd have your hands full, if he was," said Harry eyingthe intruder discontentedly, while Lisette stood picking the hulls from a fine bunch of strawberries which she was ready to give him when he had finished the peach.
"Beauty makes fools of all you girls," said Harry, cynically.
"Is that the reason I married you?" said Lisette, archly. "Well, I know I could make him good, if I had the care of him. Nothing like coaxing; is there, Tom?"
"I'll boun' there an't!" said Tom, opening his mouth for the strawberries with much the air of a handsome, saucy robin.
"Well," said Harry, "I should like to know what brought him over here. Speak, now, Tom! Weren't you sent with some message?"
"Oh laws, yes!" said Tom, getting up, and scratching his curly head. "Miss Nina sent me. She wants you to get on dat ar horse, and make tracks for home like split foot. She done got letters from two or three of her beaux, and she is dancing and tearing round there real awful. She done got scared, spects; feard they'd all come together."
"And she sent you on a message, and you haven't told me, all this time!" said Harry, making a motion as though he was going to box the child's ears; but the boy glided out of his hands as if he had been water, and was gone, vanishing among the shrubbery of the garden; and while Harry was mounting his horse, he reappeared on the roof of the little cabin, caricoling and dancing, shouting at the topmost of his voice,—
"Away down old Virginny,Dere I bought a yellow girl for a guinea."
"Away down old Virginny,Dere I bought a yellow girl for a guinea."
"Away down old Virginny,Dere I bought a yellow girl for a guinea."
"Away down old Virginny,
Dere I bought a yellow girl for a guinea."
"I'll give it to you, some time!" said Harry, shaking his fist at him.
"No, he won't, either," cried Lisette, laughing. "Come down here, Tomtit, and I'll make a good boy of you."
In order to understand the occasion which hurried Harry home, we must go back to Canema. Nina, after taking her letters from the hands of Tomtit, as we have related, ran back with them into Mrs. Nesbit's room, and sat herself down to read them. As she read, she evidently became quite excited and discomposed, crumpling a paper with her little hand, and tapping her foot impatiently on the carpet.
"There, now, I'm sure I don't know what I shall do, Aunt Nesbit!" addressing her aunt, because it was her outspoken habit to talk to any body or thing which happened to be sitting next to her. "I've got myself into a pretty scrape now!"
"I told you you'd get into trouble, one of these days!"
"Oh, youtoldme so! If there's anything I hate, it is to have anybody tell me 'I told you so!' But now aunt, really, I know I've been foolish, but I don't know what to do. Here are two gentlemen coming together, that I wouldn't have meet each other here for the world; and I don't know really what I had better do."
"You'd better do just as you please, as you always do, and always would, ever since I knew you," said Aunt Nesbit, in a calm, indifferent tone.
"But, really, aunt, I don't know what's proper to do in such a case."
"Your and my notions of propriety, Nina, are so different, that I don't know how to advise you. You see the consequences, now, of not attending to the advice of your friends. I always knew these flirtations of yours would bring you into trouble." And Aunt Nesbit said this with that quiet, satisfied air with which precise elderly people so often edify their thoughtless young friends under difficulties.
"Well, I didn't want a sermon, now, Aunt Nesbit; but, as you've seen a great deal more of the world than I have, I thought you might help me a little, just to tell me whether it wouldn't be proper for me to write and put one of these gentlemen off; or make some excuse for me, or something. I'm sureInever kept house before. I don't want to do anything that don't seem hospitable; and yet I don't want them to come together. Now, there, that's flat!"
There was a long pause, in which Nina sat vexed and coloring, biting her lips, and nestling uneasily in her seat.
Mrs. Nesbit looked calm and considerate, and Nina began to hope that she was taking the case a little to heart.
At last the good old lady looked up, and said, very quietly, "I wonder what time it is."
Nina thought she was debating the expediency of sending some message; and therefore she crossed the room with great alacrity, to look at the old clock in the entry.
"It's half-past two, aunt!" and she stood, with her lips apart, looking at Mrs. Nesbit for some suggestion.
"I was going to tell Rosa," said she, abstractedly, "that that onion in the stuffing does not agree with me. It rose on my stomach all yesterday morning; but it's too late now."
Nina actually stamped with anger.
"Aunt Nesbit, you are the most selfish person I ever saw in my life!"
"Nina, child, you astonish me!" said Aunt Nesbit, with her wonted placidity. "What's the matter?"
"I don't care!" said Nina; "I don't care a bit! I don't see how people can be so! If a dog should come to me and tell me he was in trouble, I think I should listen to him, and show some kind of interest to help him! I don't care how foolish anybody has been; if they are in trouble, I'd help them, if I could; and I think you might think enough of it to give me some little advice!"
"Oh, you are talking about that affair, yet?" said her aunt. "Why, I believe I told you I didn't know what to advise, didn't I? Shouldn't give way to this temper, Nina; it's very unladylike, besides being sinful. But, then, I don't suppose it's any use for me to talk!" And Aunt Nesbit, with an abused air,got up, walked quietly to the looking-glass, took off her morning cap, unlocked her drawer, and laid it in; took out another, which Nina could not see differed a particle from the last, held it up thoughtfully on her hand, and appeared absorbed in the contemplation of it,—while Nina, swelling with a mixture of anger and mortification, stood regarding her as she leisurely picked out each bow, and finally, with a decorous air of solemnity, arranged it upon her head, patting it tenderly down.
"Aunt Nesbit," she said, suddenly, as if the words hurt her, "I think I spoke improperly, and I'm very sorry for it. I beg your pardon."
"Oh, it's no matter, child; I didn't care about it. I'm pretty well used to your temper."
Bang went the door, and in a moment Nina stood in the entry, shaking her fist at it with impotent wrath.
"You stony, stiff, disagreeable old creature! how came you ever to be my mother's sister?" And, with the word mother, she burst into a tempest of tears, and rushed violently to her own chamber. The first object that she saw was Milly, arranging some clothes in her drawer; and, to her astonishment, Nina rushed up to her, and, throwing her arms round her neck, sobbed and wept in such tumultuous excitement that the good creature was alarmed.
"Laws bless my soul, my dear little lamb! what's the matter? Why, don't! Don't, honey! Why, bless the dear little soul! bless the dear precious lamb! who's been a hurting of it?" And, at each word of endearment, Nina's distress broke out afresh, and she sobbed so bitterly that the faithful creature really began to be frightened.
"Laws, Miss Nina, I hope there an't nothing happened to you now!"
"No, no, nothing, Milly, only I am lonesome, and I want my mother! I haven't got any mother! Dear me!" she said, with a fresh burst.
"Ah, the poor thing!" said Milly, compassionately, sitting down, and fondling Nina in her arms, as if she had been a babe. "Poor chile! Laws, yes; I 'member your ma was a beautiful woman!"
"Yes," said Nina, speaking between her sobs, "the girls atschool had mothers. And there was Mary Brooks, she used to read to me her mother's letters, and I used to feel so, all the while, to think nobody wrote such letters to me! And there's Aunt Nesbit—I don't care what they say about her being religious, she is the most selfish, hateful creature I ever did see! I do believe, if I was lying dead and laid out in the next room to her, she would be thinking what she'd get next for dinner!"
"Oh, don't, my poor lamb, don't!" said Milly, compassionately.
"Yes, I will, too! She's always taking it for granted that I'm the greatest sinner on the face of the earth! She don't scold me—she don't care enough about me to scold! She only takes it for granted, in her hateful, quiet way, that I'm going to destruction, and that she can't help it, and don't care! Supposing I'm not good!—what's to make me good? Is it going to make me good for people to sit up so stiff, and tell me they always knew I was a fool, and a flirt, and all that? Milly, I've had dreadful turns of wanting to be good, and I've laid awake nights and cried because I wasn't good. And what makes it worse is, that I think if Ma was alive she could help me. She wasn't like Aunt Nesbit, was she, Milly?"
"No, honey, she wasn't. I'll tell you about your ma some time, honey."
"The worst of it is," said Nina, "when Aunt Nesbit speaks to me in her hateful way, I get angry; then I speak in a way that isn't proper, I know. Oh, if she only would get angry with me back again! or if she'd do anything in the world but stand still, in her still way, telling me she is astonished at me! That's a lie, too; for she never was astonished at anything in her life! She hasn't life enough to be!"
"Ah, Miss Nina, we mustn't spect more of folks than there is in them."
"Expect? I don't expect!"
"Well, bless you, honey, when you knows what folksis, don't let's worry. Ye can't fill a quart-cup out of a thimble, honey, no way you can fix it. There's just whar 'tis. I knowed your ma, and I's knowed Miss Loo, ever since she was a girl. 'Pears like they wan't no more alike than snow is like sugar. Miss Loo, when she was a girl, she was that pretty that everybody was wondering after her; but to de love, dat ar went after yourma. Couldn't tell why it was, honey. 'Peared like Miss Loo wan't techy, nor she wan't one of your bursting-out sort, scolding round. 'Peared like she'd never hurt nobody; and yet our people, they couldn't none of dem bar her. 'Peared like nobody did nothing for her with a will."
"Well, good reason!" said Nina; "she never did anything for anybody else with a will! She never cared for anybody! Now, I'm selfish; I always knew it. I do a great many selfish things; but it's a different kind from hers. Do you know, Milly, she don't seem to know she is selfish? There she sits, rocking in her old chair, so sure she's going straight to heaven, and don't care whether anybody else gets there or not!"
"Oh laws, now, Miss Nina, you's too hard on her. Why, look how patient she sits with Tomtit, teaching him his hymns and varses."
"And you think that's because she cares anything about him? Do you know she thinks he isn't fit to go to heaven, and that if he dies he'll go to the bad place. And yet, if he was to die to-morrow, she'd talk to you about clear-starching her caps! No wonder the child don't love her! She talks to him just as she does to me; tells him she don't expect anything of him—she knows he'll never come to any good; and the little wretch has got it by heart, now. Do you know that, though I get in a passion with Tom, sometimes, and though I'm sure I should perish sitting boring with him over those old books, yet I really believe I care more for him than she does? And he knows it, too. He sees through her as plain as I do. You'll never make me believe that Aunt Nesbit has got religion. I know there is such a thing as religion; but she hasn't got it. It isn't all being sober, and crackling old stiff religious newspapers, and boring with texts and hymns, that makes people religious. She is just as worldly-minded as I am, only it's in another way. There, now, I wanted her to advise me about something, to-day. Why, Milly, all girls want somebody to talk with; and if she'd only showed the least interest in what I said, she might scold me and lecture me as much as she'd a mind to. But, to have her not even hear me! And when she must have seen that I was troubled and perplexed, and wanted somebody to advise me, she turned round so cool, and began to talk about the onions andthe stuffing! Got me so angry! I suppose she is in her room, now, rocking, and thinking what a sinner I am!"
"Well, now, Miss Nina, 'pears though you've talked enough about dat ar; 'pears like it won't make you feel no better."
"Yes itdoesmake me feel better! I had to speak to somebody, Milly, or else I should have burst; and now I wonder where Harry is. He always could find a way for me out of anything."
"He is gone over to see his wife, I think, Miss Nina."
"Oh, too bad! Do sent Tomtit after him, right away. Tell him that I want him to come right home, this very minute—something very particular. And, Milly, you just go and tell Old Hundred to get out the carriage and horses, and I'll go over and drop a note in the post-office, myself. I won't trust it to Tomtit; for I know he'll lose it."
"Miss Nina," said Milly, looking hesitatingly, "I 'spect you don't know how things go about round here; but the fact is, Old Hundred has got so kind of cur'ous, lately, there can't nobody do nothing with him, except Harry. Don't 'tend to do nothing Miss Loo tells him to. I's feared he'll make up some story or other about the horses; but he won't get 'em out—now, mind, I tell you, chile!"
"He won't! I should like to know if he won't, when I tell him to! A pretty story that would be! I'll soon teach him that he has a live mistress—somebody quite different from Aunt Loo!"
"Well, well, chile, perhaps you'd better go. He wouldn't mind me, I know. Maybe he'll do it for you."
"Oh, yes; I'll just run down to his house, and hurry him up." And Nina, quite restored to her usual good-humor, tripped gayly across to the cabin of Old Hundred, that stood the other side of the house.
Old Hundred's true name was, in fact, John. But he had derived the appellation, by which he was always known, from the extreme moderation of all his movements. Old Hundred had a double share of that profound sense of the dignity of his office which is an attribute of the tribe of coachmen in general. He seemed to consider the horses and carriage as a sort of family ark, of which he was the high priest, and which it was hisbusiness to save from desecration. According to his own showing, all the people on the plantation, and indeed the whole world in general, were in a state of habitual conspiracy against the family carriage and horses, and he was standing for them, single-handed, at the risk of his life. It was as much part of his duty, in virtue of his office, to show cause, on every occasion, why the carriage shouldnotbe used, as it is for state attorneys to undertake prosecutions. And it was also a part of the accomplishment of his situation to conduct his refusal in the most decorous manner; always showing that it was only the utter impossibility of the case which prevented. The available grounds of refusal Old Hundred had made a life-study, and had always a store of them cut and dried for use, all ready at a moment's notice. In the first place, there were always a number of impossibilities with regard to the carriage. Either "it was muddy, and he was laying out to wash it;" or else "he had washed it, and couldn't have it splashed;" or "he had taken out the back curtain, and had laid out to put a stitch in it, one of dese yer days;" or there was something the matter with the irons. "He reckoned they was a little bit sprung." He "'lowed he'd ask the blacksmith about it, some of dese yer times." And then as to the horses the possibilities were rich and abundant. What with strains, and loose shoes, and stones getting in at the hoofs, dangers of all sorts of complaints, for which he had his own vocabulary of names, it was next to an impossibility, according to any ordinary rule of computing chances, that the two should be in complete order together.
Utterly ignorant, however, of the magnitude of the undertaking which she was attempting, and buoyant with the consciousness of authority, Nina tripped singing along, and found Old Hundred tranquilly reclining in his tent-door, watching through his half-shut eyes, while the afternoon sunbeam irradiated the smoke which rose from the old pipe between his teeth. A large, black, one-eyed crow sat perching, with a quizzical air, upon his knee; and when he heard Nina's footsteps approaching, cocked his remaining eye towards her, with a smart, observing attitude, as if he had been deputed to look out for applications while his master dozed. Between this crow, who had received the sobriquet of Uncle Jeff, and his master, thereexisted a most particular bond of friendship and amity. This was further strengthened by the fact that they were both equally disliked by all the inhabitants of the place. Like many people who are called to stand in responsible positions, Old Hundred had rather failed in the humble virtues, and become dogmatical and dictatorial to that degree that nobody but his own wife could do anything with him. And as to Jeff, if the principle of thievery could be incarnate, he might have won a temple among the Lacedemonians. In various skirmishes and battles consequent on his misdeeds, Jeff had lost an eye, and had a considerable portion of the feathers scalded off on one side of his head; while the remaining ones, discomposed by the incident, ever after stood up in a protesting attitude, imparting something still more sinister to his goblin appearance. In another rencounter he had received a permanent twist in the neck, which gave him always the appearance of looking over his shoulder, and added not a little to the oddity of the general effect. Uncle Jeff thieved with an assiduity and skill which were worthy of a better cause; and, when not upon any serious enterprise of this kind, employed his time in pulling up corn, scratching up newly-planted flower-seeds, tangling yarn, pulling out knitting-needles, pecking the eyes of sleeping people, scratching and biting children, and any other little miscellaneous mischief which occurred to him. He was invaluable to Old Hundred, because he was a standing apology for any and all discoveries made on his premises of things which ought not to have been there. No matter what was brought to light,—whether spoons from the great house, or a pair of sleeve-buttons, or a handkerchief, or a pipe from a neighboring cabin,—Jeff was always called up to answer. Old Hundred regularly scolded, on these occasions, and declared he was enough to "spile the character of any man's house." And Jeff would look at him comically over the shoulder, and wink his remaining eye, as much as to say that the scolding was a settled thing between them, and that he wasn't going to take it at all in ill part.
"Uncle John," said Nina, "I want you to get the carriage out for me, right away. I want to take a ride over the cross run."
"Laws bless you sweet face, honey, chile, I's dreadful sorry; but you can't do it dis yer day."
"Can't do it! Why not?"
"Why, bless you, chile, it an't possible, no way. Can't have the carriage and hosses dis yer arternoon."
"But Imustgo over to cross run to the post-office. I must go this minute!"
"Law, chile, you can't do it! fur you can't walk, and it's sartain you can't ride, because dese yer hosses, nor dis yer carriage, can't stir out dis yer arternoon, no way you can fix it. Mout go, perhaps, to-morrow, or next week."
"Oh, Uncle John, I don't believe a word of it! I want them this afternoon, and I say Imusthave them!"
"No, you can't, chile," said Old Hundred, in a tender, condescending tone, as if he was speaking to a baby. "I tell you dat ar is impossible. Why, bless your soul, Miss Nina, de curtains is all off de carriage!"
"Well, put them on again, then!"
"Ah, Miss Nina, dat ar an't all. Pete was desperate sick, last night; took with de thumps, powerful bad. Why, Miss Nina, he was dat sick I had to be up with him most all night!" And, while Old Hundred thus adroitly issued this little work of fiction, the raven nodded waggishly at Nina, as much as to say, "You hear that fellow, now!"
Nina stood quite perplexed, biting her lips, and Old Hundred seemed to go into a profound slumber.
"I don't believe but what the horses can go to-day! I mean to go and look."
"Laws, honey, chile, ye can't, now; de do's is all locked, and I've got de key in my pocket. Every one of dem critturs would have been killed forty times over 'fore now. I think everybody in dis yer world is arter dem dar critturs. Miss Loo, she's wanting 'em to go one way, and Harry's allers usin' de critturs. Got one out, dis yer arternoon, riding over to see his wife. Don't see no use in his riding round so grand, noway! Laws, Miss Nina, your pa used to say to me, says he, 'Uncle John, you knows more about dem critturs dan I do; and, now I tell you what it is, Uncle John—you take care of dem critturs; don't you let nobody kill 'em for nothing.' Now, Miss Nina, I's always a walking in the steps of the colonel's 'rections. Now, good, clar, bright weather, over good roads, Ilikes to trot the critturs out. Dat ar is reasonable. But, den, what roads is over the cross run, I want to know? Dem dere roads is de most mis'ablest things you ever did see. Mud! Hi! Ought for to see de mud down dar by de creek! Why, de bridge all tared off! Man drowned in dat dar creek once! Was so! It an't no sort of road for young ladies to go over. Tell you, Miss Nina; why don' you let Harry carry your letter over? If he must be ridin' round de country, don't see why he couldn't do some good wid his ridin'. Why, de carriage wouldn't get over before ten o'clock, dis yer night! Now, mine, I tell you. Besides, it's gwine fur to rain. I's been feeling dat ar in my corns, all dis yer morning; and Jeff, he's been acting like the berry debil hisself—de way he always does 'fore it rains. Never knowed dat ar sign to fail."
"The short of the matter is, Uncle John, you are determined not to go," said Nina. "But I tell you youshallgo!—there, now! Now, do you get up immediately, and get out those horses!"
Old Hundred still sat quiet, smoking; and Nina, after reiterating her orders till she got thoroughly angry, began, at last, to ask herself the question, how she was going to carry them into execution. Old Hundred appeared to have descended into himself in a profound reverie, and betrayed not the smallest sign of hearing anything she said.
"I wish Harry would come back quick," she said to herself as she pensively retraced her steps through the garden; but Tomtit had taken the commission to go for him in his usual leisurely way spending the greater part of the afternoon on the road.
"Now, an't you ashamed of yourself, you mean old nigger!" said Aunt Rose, the wife of Old Hundred, who had been listening to the conversation; "talking 'bout de creek, and de mud, and de critturs, and Lor knows what all, when we all knows it's nothing but your laziness!"
"Well," said Old Hundred, "and what would come o' the critturs if I wasn't lazy, I want to know? Laziness! it's the berry best thing for the critturs can be. Where'd dem horses a been now, if I had been one of your highfelutin sort, always driving round? Where'd dey a been, and what would dey abeen, hey? Who wants to see hosses all skin and bone? Lord! if I had been like some o' de coachmen, de buzzards would have had the picking of dem critturs, long ago!"
"I rally believe that you've told dem dar lies till you begin to believe them yourself!" said Rose. "Telling our dear, sweet young lady about your being up with Pete all night, when de Lord knows you laid here snoring fit to tar de roof off!"
"Well, must say something! Folks must be 'spectful to de ladies. Course I couldn't tell her Iwouldn'ttake de critturs out; so I just trots out scuse. Ah! lots of dem scuses I keeps! I tell you, now, scuses is excellent things. Why, scuses is like dis yer grease that keeps de wheels from screaking. Lord bless you, de whole world turns round on scuses. Whar de world be if everybody was such fools to tell the raal reason for everything they are gwine for to do, or an't gwine fur to!"
"Oh, Harry, I'm so glad to see you back! In such trouble as I've been to-day! Don't you think, this very morning, as I was sitting in Aunt Nesbit's room, Tomtit brought up these two letters; and one of them is from Clayton, and the other from Mr. Carson; and, now, see here what Clayton says: 'I shall have business that will take me in your vicinity next week; and it is quite possible, unless I hear from you to the contrary, that you may see me at Canema next Friday or Saturday.' Well, then, see here; there's another from Mr. Carson,—that hateful Carson! Now, you see, he hasn't got my letter; says he is coming. What impudence! I'm tired to death of that creature, and he'll be here just as certain! Disagreeable people always do keep their promises! He'll certainly be here!"
"Well, Miss Nina, you recollect you said you thought it would be good fun."
"Oh, Harry, don't bring that up, I beg of you! The fact is, Harry, I've altered my mind about that. You know I've put a stop to all those foolish things at once, and am done with them. You know I wrote to Carson and Emmons, both, that my sentiments had changed, and all that sort of thing, that the girls always say. I'm going to dismiss all of 'em at once, and have no more fooling."
"What, all? Mr. Clayton and all?"
"Well, I don't know, exactly,—no. Do you know, Harry, I think his letters are rather improving?—at least, they are different letters from any I've got before; and, though I don't think I shall break my heart after him, yet I like to get them. But the other two I'm sick to death of; and, as for having that creature boring round here, I won't! At any rate, I don't want him and Clayton here together. I wouldn't have them togetherfor the world; and I wrote a letter to keep Carson off, this morning, and I've been in trouble all day. Everybody has plagued me. Aunt Nesbit only gave me one of her mopy lectures about flirting, and wouldn't help me in the least. And, then, Old Hundred: I wanted him to get out the carriage and horses for me to go over and put this letter in the office, and I never saw such a creature in my life! I can't make him do anything! I should like to know what the use is of having servants, if you can't get anything done!"
"Oh, as to Old Hundred, I understand him, and he understands me," said Harry. "I never find any trouble with him; but he is a provoking old creature. He stands very much on the dignity of his office. But, if you want your letter carried to-night, I can contrive a safer way than that, if you'll trust it to me."
"Ah! well, do take it!"
"Yes," said Harry, "I'll send a messenger across on horseback, and I have means to make him faithful."
"Well, Harry, Harry!" said Nina, catching at his sleeve as he was going out, "come back again, won't you? I want to talk to you."
During Harry's absence, our heroine drew a letter from her bosom, and read it over.
"How well he writes!" she said to herself. "So different from the rest of them! I wish he'd keep away from here,—that's what I do! It's a pretty thing to get his letters, but I don't think I want to seehim. Oh, dear! I wish I had somebody to talk to about it—Aunt Nesbit issocross! I can't—no, I won't care about him! Harry is a kind soul."
"Ah, Harry, have you sent the letter?" said she eagerly as he entered.
"I have, Miss Nina; but I can't flatter you too much. I'm afraid it's too late for the mail—though there's never any saying when the mail goes out, within two or three hours."
"Well, I hope it will stay for me, once. If that stupid creature comes, why, I don't know what I shall do! He's so presuming! and he'll squeak about with those horrid shoes of his; and then, I suppose, it will all come out, one way or another; and I don't know what Clayton will think."
"But I thought you didn't carewhathe thought."
"Well, you know, he's been writing to me all about his family. There's his father, is a very distinguished man, of a very old family; and he's been writing to me about his sister, the most dreadfully sensible sister, he has got—good, lovely, accomplished, and pious! Oh, dear me! I don't know what in the world he ever thought ofmefor! And, do you think, there's a postscript from his sister, written elegantly as can be!"
"As to family, Miss Nina," said Harry, "I think the Gordons can hold up their heads with anybody; and, then, I rather think you'll like Miss Clayton."
"Ah! but, then, Harry, this talking about fathers and sisters, it's bringing the thing awfullynear!It looks so much, you know, as if I really were caught. Do you know, Harry, I think I'm just like my pony? You know, she likes to have you come and offer her corn, and stroke her neck; and she likes tomake you believeshe's going to let you catch her; but when it comes to putting a bridle on her, she's off in a minute. Now, that's the way with me. It's rather exciting, you know, these beaux, and love-letters, and talking sentiment, going to the opera, and taking rides on horseback, and all that. But, when men get to talking about their fathers, and their sisters, and to act as if they were sure of me, I'm just like Sylfine—I want to be off. You know, Harry, I think it's a very serious thing, this being married. It's dreadful! I don't want to be a woman grown. I wishIcould always be a girl, and live just as I have lived, and have plenty more girls come and see me, and have fun. I haven't been a bit happy lately, not a bit; and I never was unhappy before in my life."
"Well, why don't you write to Mr. Clayton, and break it all off, if you feel so about it?"
"Well, why don't I? I don't know. I've had a great mind to do it; but I'm afraid I should feel worse than I do now. He's coming just like a great dark shadow over my life, and everything is beginning to feel so real to me! I don't want to take up life in earnest. I read a story, once, about Undine; and, do you know, Harry, I think I feel just as Undine did, when she felt her soul coming in her?"
"And is Clayton Knight Heldebound?" said Harry, smiling.
"I don't know. What if he should be? Now, Harry, you see the fact is that sensible men get their heads turned by such kind of girls as I am; and they pet us, and humor us. But, then, I'm afraid they're thinking, all the while, that their turn to rule is coming, by and by. They marry us because they think they are going to make us over; and what I'm afraid of is, I nevercanbe made over. Don't think I was cut out right in the first place; and there never will be much more of me than there is now. And he'll be comparing me with his pattern sister; and I shan't be any the more amiable for that. Now, his sister is what folks call highly-educated, you know, Harry. She understands all about literature, and everything. As for me, I've just cultivation enough to appreciate a fine horse—that's the extent. And yet I'm proud. I wouldn't wish to stand second, in his opinion, even to his sister. So, there it is. That's the way with us girls! We are always wanting what we know we ought not to have, and are not willing to take the trouble to get."
"Miss Nina, if you'll let me speak my mind out frankly, now, I want to offer one piece of advice. Just be perfectly true and open with Mr. Clayton; and if he and Mr. Carson should come together, just tell him frankly how the matter stands. You are a Gordon, and they say truth always runs in the Gordon blood; and now, Miss Nina, you are no longer a school-girl, but a young lady at the head of the estate."
He stopped, and hesitated.
"Well, Harry, you needn't stop. I understand you—got a few grains of sense left, I hope, and haven't got so many friends that I can afford to get angry with you for nothing."
"I suppose," said Harry, thoughtfully, "that your aunt will be well enough to be down to the table. Have you told her how matters stand?"
"Who? Aunt Loo? Catch me telling her anything! No, Harry, I've got to stand all alone. I haven't any mother, and I haven't any sister; and Aunt Loo is worse than nobody, because it's provoking to have somebody round that you feel might take an interest, and ought to, and don't care a red cent for you. Well, I declare, if I'm not much,—if I'm not sucha model as Miss Clayton, there,—how could any one expect it, when I have just come up by myself, first at the plantation, here, and then at that French boarding-school? I tell you what, Harry, boarding-schools are not what they're cried up to be. It's good fun, no doubt, but we never learnt anything there. That is to say, we never learnt it internally, but had it just rubbed on to us outside. A girl can't help, of course, learning something; and I've learnt just what I happened to like and couldn't help, and a deal that isn't of the most edifying nature besides."
Well! we shall see what will come!
"I say, Tiff,doyou think he will come, to-night?"
"Laws, laws, Missis, how can Tiff tell? I's been a gazin' out de do'. Don't see nor hear nothin'."
"It's so lonesome!—solonesome!—and the nights so long!"
And the speaker, an emaciated, feeble little woman, turned herself uneasily on the ragged pallet where she was lying, and, twirling her slender fingers nervously, gazed up at the rough, unplastered beams above.
The room was of the coarsest and rudest cast. The hut was framed of rough pine logs, filled between the crevices with mud and straw; the floor made of rough-split planks, unevenly jointed together; the window was formed by some single panes arranged in a row where a gap had been made in one of the logs. At one end was a rude chimney of sticks, where smouldered a fire of pine-cones and brushwood, covered over with a light coat of white ashes. On the mantel over it was a shelf, which displayed sundry vials, a cracked teapot and tumbler, some medicinal-looking packages, a turkey's wing, much abridged and defaced by frequent usage, some bundles of dry herbs, and lastly a gayly-painted mug of coarse crockery-ware, containing a bunch of wild-flowers. On pegs, driven into the logs, were arranged different articles of female attire, and divers little coats and dresses, which belonged to smaller wearers, with now and then soiled and coarse articles of man's apparel.
The woman, who lay upon a coarse chaff pallet in the corner, was one who once might have been pretty. Her skin was fair, her hair soft and curling, her eyes of a beautiful blue, her hands thin and transparent as pearl. But the deep, dark circles under the eyes, the thin, white lips, the attenuated limbs, thehurried breathing, and the burning spots in the cheek, told that, whatever she might have been, she was now not long for this world.
Beside her bed was sitting an old negro, in whose close-curling wool age had began to sprinkle flecks of white. His countenance presented, physically, one of the most uncomely specimens of negro features; and would have been positively frightful, had it not been redeemed by an expression of cheerful kindliness which beamed from it. His face was of ebony blackness, with a wide, upturned nose, a mouth of portentous size, guarded by clumsy lips, revealing teeth which a shark might have envied. The only fine feature was his large, black eyes, which, at the present, were concealed by a huge pair of plated spectacles, placed very low upon his nose, and through which he was directing his sight upon a child's stocking, that he was busily darning. At his foot was a rude cradle, made of a gum-tree log, hollowed out into a trough, and wadded by various old fragments of flannel, in which slept a very young infant. Another child, of about three years of age, was sitting on the negro's knee, busily playing with some pine-cones and mosses.
The figure of the old negro was low and stooping; and he wore, pinned round his shoulders, a half-handkerchief or shawl of red flannel, arranged much as an old woman would have arranged it. One or two needles, with coarse, black thread dangling to them, were stuck in on his shoulder; and as he busily darned on the little stocking, he kept up a kind of droning intermixture of chanting and talking to the child on his knee.
"So, ho, Teddy!—bub dar!—my man!—sit still!—cause yer ma's sick, and sister's gone for medicine. Dar, Tiff'll sing to his little man.