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But the knowledge did not abash him in the least. He accommodated himself at once to the situation with that adaptability common to the American youth, whether of the South, North, East or West. “Where abouts did you leave David when you come away?” she asked with a studied indifference. “Hol’ on there, Buckskin w’ere you takin’ us? W’y, I lef’ him at the sto’ mailin’ lettas.”
He stepped in, and the door banged behind him. “This w’y, sir,” said the maid, and Mr Bunker found himself in the little room where this story opened. The moment he was alone he went to the window and peeped cautiously between the slats of the venetian blind. The street was quiet, both cabs had disappeared, and for a minute or two he could see nothing even of Moggridge.
“That’s absurd: you knew all along I was going away,” she returned, with countenance as expressionless as feminine subtlety could make it. “W’y don’t you let somebody else do that? Can’t you come out yere a w’ile?” “No, I prefer doing it myself; and I don’t care to go out.” What could he do? what could he say?
W’at was de ’casion o’ dat long delay?” “De ’casion? W’y man alive, I couldn’t git a dog gone soul in de town to wait on me.” “Dat boy kin lie, yas,” said Aunt Belindy, “God A’mighty knows ever time I ben to Centaville dem sto’ keepas ain’t done a blessed t’ing but settin’ down.” “Settin’ down Lord! dey warn’t settin’ down to-day; you heah me.”
I don’ see w’y eitha, excep’ we all’ays done putty much like we wanted. But my! a man can live like a saint yere at Place-du-Bois, they ain’t no temptations o’ no kine.” “There’s little merit in your right doing, if you have no temptations to withstand,” delivering the time worn aphorism with the air and tone of a pretty sage, giving utterance to an inspired truth.
Hosma had a good deal to do w’en he got back, that’s w’y he sent me. An’ we betta hurry up if we expec’ to git any suppa’ to-night. Like as not you’ll fine your kitchen cleaned out.” Fanny looked her inquiry for his meaning. “Why, don’t you know this is ‘Tous-saint’ eve w’en the dead git out o’ their graves an’ walk about?
“Not me; I can’t ride,” wailed Fanny. “You can get up Torpedo for Mrs. Hosmer, can’t you, Grégoire?” asked Thérèse. “Certainly. W’y you could ride ole Torpedo, Mrs. Hosma, if you nova saw a hoss in yo’ life. A li’l chile could manage him.” Fanny turned to Thérèse for further assurance and found all that she looked for.
“Den w’y you neva said ‘convent’? I knows all ’bout convent. W’at you gwine do wid dem ax w’en de papah done all fill up?” handing the singular tablet back to her. “Oh,” replied Lucilla, “when I have thousands and thousands I gain twenty-five years’ indulgence.” “Is dat so?”
“Oh; I ain’t ’fraid o’ any thing I can see an on’erstan’. I can han’le mos’ any thing thet’s got a body. But they do tell some mighty queer tales ’bout this lake an’ the pine hills yonda.” “Queer how?” “W’y, ole McFarlane’s buried up there on the hill; an’ they’s folks ’round yere says he walks about o’ nights; can’t res’ in his grave fur the niggas he’s killed.”
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