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For so long the poor child "couldn't eat no thin'," and when at last Minta's appetite returned, her loving black nurse would give her anything she wanted, and if the fever hadn't hopelessly damaged the little one's digestive glands, Mammy Lou's unfailing "l'il snacks for her honey-chile" would have completed the wreckage. At first the trouble was not noticed. Minta rarely spoke of suffering.
They had gone possibly half the distance when a mad clatter of hoof- beats caused her to exclaim: "Oh, Jess, they have leaped the paddock fence!" "Dey sho' has, honey-chile. Dey sho' has," chuckled Jess. "Dat lady what's a-comin' gwine get a 'ception at 'tention what mak' her open her eyes." "Oh, but I did not want her to have such a welcome.
The next second she was holding Peggy in her arms and almost sobbing herself as she besought her to tell "who done hurt ma baby? Tell Mammy what brecken' yo' heart, honey-chile." For a few moments Peggy could not reply, and Mammy was upon the point of rushing off for Harrison when Peggy laid a detaining hand upon her and commanded: "Stop, Mammy! You must not call Harrison or anyone else.
You've been worried and busy and forever on the wing, and there have been days when I've felt you were almost a stranger to me, as though I'd got to be a sort of accident in your life. Remember, Honey-Chile, I'm not blaming you; I'm only pointing out certain obvious truths, now the time for a little honest talk seems to have cropped up.
But what amused Peggy most, and caused her to laugh aloud as she took a spoonful of luscious sliced peaches, was the manner in which the letter was addressed. Old Jerome who was serving her in the pretty delft breakfast-room took an old retainer's privilege to ask: "What 'musin' you, honey-chile?" "Didn't know I was an esquire, did you, Jerome? Well I am, because this letter says so.
Dar come Mist' Dave, right on de minute, an' you kin bet yo' las hunnud dollahs he got dat Bill Hammersley wif 'im! Come along, honey-chile! Ah's go' to pull you 'roun in de side yod fo' to meet 'em." The small wagon creaked away, the chant resuming as it went. Mr.
I had to fight back the surge of pity which was threatening to strangle my voice, pity for a man, once so proud of his power, standing stripped and naked in his weakness. "Heaven knows I don't want to joke, Honey-Chile," I told him. "But we're not the first of these wild-catting westerners who've come a cropper. And since we haven't robbed a bank, or "
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