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"Arter dat things was mighty cur'us. Missis she couldn't get no mo' clo'es, an' she put away all her fine silks an' satins, an' all little missy's too, an' her diamond comb, an' her lace shawl, an' wear nuttin' but homespun. Little marse, he wroten heaps 'o letters, an' he didn' furgit he po' ole black mammy. He wroten me hisse'f, an' I got dem letters in my chis' now. I c'yarn read 'em, but I loves 'em. An' all de time, I kep' a-honin' fur him, an' skeert 'bout him. Mistis, she was a brave 'oman—she never let on she was skeert. Night an' mornin', when she read pr'yars in de dinin'-room, wid ole marse an' little missy an' de house-servants settin' roun', she pray fur little marse, 'twell sometimes ole marse he wipe he eyes, an' I hed to fling my ap'on over my hade an' cry; but her voice never shake none. But I never did 'spect ter see him no mo', an' one night—"

Here she hesitated. The dead and gone tragedy rose up bodily before her eyes, and she paused a moment, gasping in contemplation of it.