Only, I was so angry and confused that I called her Mrs. Corn,
and said that when she sent her little Cobbs over . . . my green
servants, etc.


After Georgiana's last treatment of me I resolved not to let her
talk to me out of her window. So about nine o'clock this morning
I took a Negro boy and set him to picking the berries, while I
stood by, directing him in a deep, manly voice as to the best way
of managing that intricate business. Presently I heard Georgiana
begin to sing to herself behind the curtains.

"Hurry up and fill that cup," I said to him, savagely. "And that
will do this morning. You can go to the mill. The meal's nearly
out."

When he was gone I called, in an undertone: "Georgiana! Come to
the window! Please! Oh, Georgiana!"

But the song went on. What was the matter? I could not endure
it. There was one way by which perhaps she could be brought. I
whistled long and loud again and again. The curtains parted a
little space.

"I was merely whistling to the _bird_," I said.

"I knew it," she answered, looking as I had never seen her.
"Whenever you speak to _him_ your voice is full of confidence and
of love. I believe in it and like to hear it."