come over."

"I was half awake," Mostyn said. "I thought I heard some one calling
out at the gate." It was about two o'clock, I think." "That was the
fust time, sir. "The second time was just before daybreak. I didn't go
for her that time. She come of her own accord--said she jest couldn't
git back to sleep. She loves children, Mr. Mostyn, an' she seems to
think as much o' Robby as if he was her own. I ketched 'er cryin' last
night when she was settin' waitin' in the dark for 'im to git to
sleep. La, la, folks brag powerful on Miss Dolly, but they don't know
half o' the good she does on the quiet. She tries to keep 'em from
findin' out what she does. I know I'm grateful to 'er. If the Lord
don't give me a chance to repay 'er for her kindness to me an' mine
I'll never be satisfied." The speaker's voice had grown husky, and he
now choked up. Silence fell. It was broken by a sweet voice in the
cabin humming an old plantation lullaby. There was a thumping of a
rockerless chair on the floor. Presently the mother of the child came
out. She blinked from the staring blue eyes which she timidly raised
to Mostyn's face. Her dress was a poor drab rag of a thing which hung
limply over her thin form. Her hair was tawny and drawn into a tight,
unbecoming knot at the back of her head. No collar of any sort hid her
sun-browned, bony neck.

"Miss Dolly said please not wait for her," she faltered. "Breakfast at
the house will be over. She's done give the child the medicine an'
wants to put it to sleep. It will sleep for her, but won't for me or
Tobe. We have sent for a doctor, but we don't know whether he will
come or not. Doctors can't afford to bother with real pore folks as
much out o' the way as this is."