At noon, when the editor, having laid down his pen, was leaving the office, he passed Jerry in the hall without a word or a nod.  The major wore a rapt look, which Jerry observed with a vague uneasiness.

“He looks jes’ lack he wuz walkin’ in his sleep,” muttered Jerry uneasily.  “Dere’s somethin’ up, sho ’s you bawn!  ‘No nigger damnation!’ Anybody’d ’low dey wuz all gwine ter heaven; but I knows better!  W’en a passel er w’ite folks gits ter talkin’ ’bout de niggers lack dem in yander, it’s mo’ lackly dey’re gwine ter ketch somethin’ e’se dan heaven!  I got ter keep my eyes open an’ keep up wid w’at’s happenin’.  Ef dere’s gwine ter be anudder flood ‘roun’ here, I wants ter git in de ark wid de w’ite folks,—­I may haf ter be anudder Ham, an’ sta’t de cullud race all over ag’in.”

IV

THEODORE FELIX

The young heir of the Carterets had thriven apace, and at six months old was, according to Mammy Jane, whose experience qualified her to speak with authority, the largest, finest, smartest, and altogether most remarkable baby that had ever lived in Wellington.  Mammy Jane had recently suffered from an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, as the result of which she had returned to her own home.  She nevertheless came now and then to see Mrs. Carteret.  A younger nurse had been procured to take her place, but it was understood that Jane would come whenever she might be needed.

“You really mean that about Dodie, do you, Mammy Jane?” asked the delighted mother, who never tired of hearing her own opinion confirmed concerning this wonderful child, which had come to her like an angel from heaven.

“Does I mean it!” exclaimed Mammy Jane, with a tone and an expression which spoke volumes of reproach.  “Now, Mis’ ’Livy, what is I ever uttered er said er spoke er done dat would make you s’pose I could tell you a lie ‘bout yo’ own chile?”

“No, Mammy Jane, I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

“‘Deed, ma’am, I’m tellin’ you de Lawd’s truf.  I don’ haf ter tell no lies ner strain no p’ints ’bout my ole mist’ess’s gran’chile.  Dis yer boy is de ve’y spit an’ image er yo’ brother, young Mars Alick, w’at died w’en he wuz ‘bout eight mont’s ole, w’iles I wuz laid off havin’ a baby er my own, an’ couldn’ be roun’ ter look after ‘im.  An’ dis chile is a rale quality chile, he is,—­I never seed a baby wid sech fine hair fer his age, ner sech blue eyes, ner sech a grip, ner sech a heft.  W’y, dat chile mus’ weigh ‘bout twenty-fo’ poun’s, an’ he not but six mont’s ole.  Does dat gal w’at does de nussin’ w’iles I’m gone ten’ ter dis chile right, Mis’ ’Livy?”

“She does fairly well, Mammy Jane, but I could hardly expect her to love the baby as you do.  There’s no one like you, Mammy Jane.”

“‘Deed dere ain’t, honey; you is talkin’ de gospel truf now!  None er dese yer young folks ain’ got de trainin’ my ole mist’ess give me.  Dese yer new-fangle’ schools don’ l’arn ’em nothin’ ter compare wid it.  I’m jes’ gwine ter give dat gal a piece er my min’, befo’ I go, so she’ll ten’ ter dis chile right.”