“Dat was de way, young marse, as I knowed she didn’t know as my po’ ole man were gone. Yo’ see, arter hearin’ the wuss she mus’ a drop yight down by de bed w’ere I foun’ her, an’ kivered up her head, an’ never moved ’til I come an’ helped her up an’ took her out, an’ so she nebber knowed w’en my po’ ole angel breaved his las’. He mus’ ’a’ ’parted berry peaceful.” Martha stopped, wiped away a few quiet tears, and resumed: “I ’suaded my ole mist’ess to lay down, an’ den I made her a cup o’ tea an’ gib her, an’ at las’ I went to my po’ ole man to set long ob him an’ hab my cry out, ’caze I was fillin’ up an’ chokin’ all de time de ole madam was talkin’ an’ moanin’, an’ I didn’t wan’ to let out ’fo’ her. Dat arternoon I did my las’ dooty to my po’ ole man. Dere wa’n’t nobody to do nuffin dat day but me. An’ ef dere’d bin frousan’s, I wouldn’ ’a’ let anybody tech my po’ ole angel but me—no, sah, I wouldn’—not ’til de man wid de coffin came, I wouldn’.” “And you were alone there with your mistress, without any help?” “Yes, sah, ’til Mr. Silence Wyn’op come. Some ob dem w’ite folks used to come ebery day. Dey was moughty good to me w’ile my po’ ole man was sick, yit’ letters fo’ me an’ sent good tings to eat fo’ him. Yes, dey did. Dat ebenin’ Mr. Silence he come, an’ w’en he fin’ how it all was yere, he tuk all de ’sponsibility on hisse’f, young Mr. Silence did, an’ had eberyting ’tended to, he did—young Mr. Silence did—an’ my po’ ole angel had as ’spectable a funeral as I could wish—yes, he had. An’ he’s gone to glory, ’caze he were a good angel, an’ nebber frought ’bout hisse’f—no, sah, he didn’t. An’ he’s gone to glory, an’ I won’t be long ’hind him—dat’s wot comfo’ts me mos’ ob all.” “And your mistress?” inquired Harcourt. “Oh, w’en I tell her my po ’ole man were gone she were berry sorry—berry sorry fo’ him an’ berry sorry fo’ me, an’ moughty good she was to me; but she nebber lef’ her bed, de ole madam didn’. Eben fo’ de fun’al she seem perfec’ly ’x’austed, an’ she did nuffin but moan an’ groan, an’ mutter ’bout disg’ace.” “Yet you told me in the beginning of your talk about her that she was happier now than she had been since the death of my father.” “Yes, young marster. I ’xplain ’bout dat p’esently. But dat time w’en she lay in bed, moanin’ an’ groanin’ was las’ November, an’ dis is March. Dat time she did nuffin but griebe ober wot she called disg’ace an’ shame, ’til I frought she would ’a’ died, or loss her min’, I did.” “And she never dropped a hint of the nature of the secret she had heard from Moses?” “Nebber, young marse, f’om dat day to dis.” “Was it——” slowly began Harcourt, as his mind doubtfully and painfully reverted to the Crest House tragedy—“was it anything of recent occurrence?” “Currants? No, young marse, ’twan’t nuffin ’bout no currants, do’ I did take all I wanted fo’ de ole madam’s jelly, out’n our ole garden up to de big house, it was wid de w’ite people’s leabe; no, sah, ’twan’t de currants.”