“Nice Mas’r Hugh—most as white as Miss Alice. De sweat has washed de dirt all off. Pretty Mas’r Hugh!” and Mug’s little black hand was laid caressingly on the face she admired so much. “I mean to ask God about him, just like I see Miss Alice do,” she continued, and stealing to the opposite side of the room, Muggins kneeled down, and with her face turned towards Hugh, she said, first, the prayer taught by Alice after an immense amount of labor and patience, after which she continued, “If God is hearin’ me, will he please do all dat Miss Alice ax him ’bout curin’ Mas’r Hugh, only not take him to heaven as she say, and scuse Mug, who is nothin’ but poor little lazy nigger, all-us round under foot.” This was too much for Hugh. The sight of that ignorant negro child, kneeling by the window, with her hands clasped supplicatingly together, as she prayed for him in imitation of the Golden Haired, unmanned him entirely, and hiding his head beneath the sheets, he sobbed aloud. With a nervous start, Mug arose from her knees, and coming towards him, stood for an instant gazing in mute terror at the trembling of the bed-clothes which hid her master from sight. “I’ll bet he’s in a fit. I mean to screech for Miss Alice,” and Muggins was about darting away, when Hugh’s long arm caught and held her fast. “Oh, de gracious, Mas’r Hugh,” she cried, “you skeers me so. Does you know me, Mas’r Hugh?” and somewhat relieved by the expression of his face, she took a step towards him. “Yes, I know you, and I want to talk a little. Where am I, Mug? What room, I mean?” “Why, Miss Alice’s in course. She ’sisted, and ’sisted till ’em brung you in here, ’case she say it cool and nice. Oh, Miss Alice so fine.” “In Miss Johnson’s room,” and Hugh looked perfectly bewildered, while Mug explained how Miss Alice “had prayed for Mas’r Hugh, and cried for Mas’r Hugh, and she didn’t know but she had actually kissed Mas’r Hugh; any way, she got mighty clus to him sometimes. “Where is she now?” Hugh asked, and Mug replied, “Eatin her dinner, she watched las’ night and bimeby she’s gwine to lie down. I hearn her say so, an’ old Miss comin’ to set long of you!” Hugh felt a pang of disappointment that he should not probably see Alice that afternoon. But she needed sleep, he knew, and he was mentally chiding himself for his selfishness, when his mother stepped into the room. She looked so pale and thin that Hugh involuntarily groaned as he thought how she had grown weary and worn for him who had sometimes accused her of indifference. The groan caught Mrs. Worthington’s ear, and bending over him she said, “What is it, Hugh?” “Are you worse? Do you want anything?” “No, I’m better—the cobwebs are gone. I am myself again—dear, darling mother,” and Hugh stretched his hands towards her.