CHAPTER XVII ROMA’S DECISION Miss Fronde’s guests left Goblin Hall very soon after dinner, the lawyer to go back to his chambers in Washington, the minister to return to his parsonage. Both, in taking leave of her, had placed themselves entirely at her service, imploring her to notify them by message or telegram whenever she might want them. Roma thanked her old friends, and promised all they wished. After their departure she sat quite alone in the small, dark-wainscoted parlor. The sun had gone down behind a bank of clouds. It was now coming on to rain, and the air was cold for April. Pompous came in and lighted the wax candles at each end of the mantelpiece and the moderator lamp on the round center table. Then, without orders, he brought in a basketful of resinous pine cones and kindled a bright fire on the hearth. Roma scarcely noticed what he was doing until the sudden blaze in the fireplace made her look up. “Take de chill offen de ’a’, young mist’ess. Moughty onsartain dese Ap’il days an’ nights—moughty. Yere dis mornin’ so hot in de sun you’d ’a’ sought it mought be July ’stead ob Ap’il; now so col’ an’ damp yo’ mought sink it was Janiwery. Now I gwine fetch two or free cedar logs an’ lay on top o’ dese yere, an’ it will keep yo’ a sweet, lively little fire all de ebenin’,” said the negro as he turned to leave the room. “Thank you, Pontius,” replied Roma, leaving her seat, in her restlessness, and beginning to walk up and down the floor. In a few minutes the negro returned, laid the cedar logs across the andirons, clapped his hands gently over the hearth, to shake them free of fibers of bark, and then stood as if he had something to say. Roma, pacing up and down the floor, scarcely noticed him. At last he said: “Mons’ous sorry to year wot happen’d ob, youn’ mist’ess. Nebber yeared nuftin ’t all ’bout it till I come f’om de mill dis arternoon. Mons’ous sorry I didn’ set Tige on dat lowlife w’ite trash yes’day. Mons’ous sorry. Ef ebber he do sho’ his lowlife w’ite face onto dis plantation ag’in I gwine set Tige on him, fo’ sho! I is, ef I’s got to hang fo’ it. I is, indeed. Trufe, fo’ a fac’.” “I do not think he will come again,” said Miss Fronde. “He better not. ’Deed, he better not. Not ef he knows wot’s good fo’ his healf, he hadn’t. But, say, young mist’ess, can’t yo’ have dat w’ite herrin’ hung fo’ stealing dat chile?” “Hardly, Pontius.” “All yight, den. I’ll be hung fo’ him ef he ebber sho’ his face yere ag’in. It’s de trufe, fo’ a fac’.” Miss Fronde made no comment. She scarcely heard the monologue of the man, who continued to talk in the same strain, repeating himself over and over again, as is the manner of his kind, until, receiving no encouragement to stand and talk, he strutted out of the room in his usual ponderous fashion.