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A murmur of drowsy birds came from the darkening trees a few hushed, plaintive notes, wistfully calling in tones of twilight. "Poor little Mesmie is having a bad time of it," Brent spoke with an effort. "It's been fourteen days, and Stone says he must try to graft skin. I offered mine, but he couldn't consider it." "That was very fine of you, Brent," the old gentleman turned to him.
As the weeks passed, a great relief spread throughout the place when it became known that Mesmie would recover. The grafts had taken hold, and it now seemed as though her days might be long and prosperous.
Mesmie was sleeping by the aid of a mild narcotic, and Aunt Timmie, having darkened the windows, had now come quietly out to converse with him. Her seven days of vigilance had been trying to a degree, and, although while in the sick room she was the very soul of tenderness, this opportunity for relaxation came as a grateful relief.
"Scramble up on yoh dumplin' an' come 'long! Li'l Mesmie," he looked down at the girl, "you stan' right dar an' squint yoh eyes good, an' you'll see de hottes' Kentucky Derby ever run!" Bip led his pony to the horseblock, and by much squirming managed to wriggle on; then trotted over to Uncle Zack. "We're ready," he cried, his face alight with excitement. "How much start'll you give me?" "Staht!
So now, when the men arrived, she was facing them, frowning as an indignant, inexpugnable black executioner. "Good morning, Timmie," said the Colonel, starting to enter, but she blocked the doorway, announcing: "You-alls cyarn' come in! Dar's a lady 'sleep in heah!" "How is Mesmie?" he asked. "She's in mighty bad shape, dat's how she is!"
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