"'Deed it was, Brothah Fostah," she answered. "How's all up yo' way?"

The Little Colonel, running on after a couple of white butterflies, paid
no attention to the conversation until she heard her own name mentioned.

"Mistah Sherman came home last night, I heah."

"Yes, but not to stay long, I'm afraid. He's a mighty sick man, if I'm
any judge. He's down with fevah,--regulah typhoid. He doesn't look to me
like he's long for this world. What's to become of poah Miss 'Lizabeth
if that's the case, is moah'n I know." "We mustn't cross the bridge till
we come to it, Sistah Po'tah," he suggested.

"I know that; but a lookin'-glass broke yeste'day mawnin' when nobody
had put fingah on it. An' his picture fell down off the wall while I was
sweepin' the pa'lah. Pete said his dawg done howl all night last night,
an' I've dremp three times hand runnin' 'bout muddy watah."

Mom Beck felt a little hand clutch her skirts, and turned to see a
frightened little face looking anxiously up at her.

"Now, what's the mattah with you, honey?" she asked. "I'm only a-tellin'
Mistah Fostah about some silly old signs my mammy used to believe in.
But they don't mean nothin' at all."

Lloyd couldn't have told why she was unhappy. She had not understood all
that Mom Beck had said, but her sensitive little mind was shadowed by a
foreboding of trouble.

The shadow deepened as the days passed. Papa Jack got worse instead of