“’Caze yo’ see, young marster, I wanted de ole mist’ess to get a comfor’able breakfas’ fo’ gwine frough any tryin’ time, long ob my po’ ole man. An’ dat was lie de frurd. An’ so I kep’ on gwine f’om one to tudder, lyin’ fas’ as a horse could trot, ’til ole mist’ess was dress’ an’ had her breakfas’ good.” “Well? And then?” demanded Harcourt. “Den I tole her as my po’ ole man was woke up, an’ she went in to see him. An’ w’en she see how low he were she look mighty ’stress, an’ she say—de ole madam say: “‘Moses,’ she say, ‘I’m berry sorry to see yo’ sick.’ “An’ she set down by his bed an’ put her han’ on his fo’head. An’ he say—my po’ ole man say: “‘Mist’ess, I ain’t wurvy fo’ yo’ to care ’bout me.’ “Den he say to me, he say: “‘Marffy, chile, yo’ go ’way. I got somefin to say to de madam w’ich I mus’ say to herse’f alone.’ “So, young marse, I went out ob de room, an’ lef’ de ole mist’ess settin’ by my ole man, wid her deliky han’ on his fo’head. An’ I went, an’ ’gan fo’ to make up de ole madam’s bed, an’ put her yoom to yights. An’ all de time I was a-doin’ ob it I yeard de mummerin’ ob deir woices in de yudder yoom, but couldn’ year wot dey was a-sayin’. An’ sometimes I yeerd a moan, but didn’t dare fo’ to ’trude ’fo’ I was called. An’ arter I had done de ole madam’s yoom I went an’ wash up all de breakfas’ t’ings an’ clean up de kitchen. ’Deed, by dat time, I frought it weer time fo’ dem to call me in, ’specially as I didn’t year no mo’ talkin’. W’en I were done cleanin’ up I went close to de do’ an’ listened, but couldn’ year nuffin, but ebery little while a moan, like some one in deep ’stress. Well, young marse, I waited ebber so long, an’ as nuffin could be yeard but dat moanin’, moanin’, I got ’larmed, an’ I jus’ peeped in’ an’ den I went in——” Here suddenly the poor woman broke into a storm of sobs and tears, throwing her apron over her head, and rocking herself to and fro. Harcourt did not attempt to comfort her. He did not know how. He could only say: “I am very sorry for you, Martha—very sorry.” “’Tain’t no use, young marster,” she said, as soon as she had recovered her voice amid subsiding sobs and tears. “’Tain’t a bit ob use! Me cryin’ nor yo’ bein’ sorry; not a bit ob use in dis worl’. ’Twon’t change nuffin as is past an’ gone. Dere, I’s done now,” she added, wiping her eyes with her checked apron. “An’ now I’ll tell yo’ wot I foun’ w’en I went in dat yoom.” “Don’t hurry or distress yourself, Martha,” said Harcourt kindly. “I mought’s well tell, an’ be done wiv it. Well, young marse, w’en I went inter dat yoom I foun’ ole mist’ess kneel in’ down on he flo’ by de side ob de bed, wiv her head bowed down on de quilt, an’—an’—an’ my po’ ole man—dead!” Another wild burst of sobs and tears interrupted the narrative. Harcourt could only repeat the words that rose sincerely from his heart: “I am very, very sorry for you, poor, dear Martha.”