Jake had assumed that he was the child’s father, and he did not contradict him, but said, “You call her the child.  Has she no name?”

“Yes, Dory; dat’s what her mother called her, but to me dar’s only one Dory, an’ she’s dead, an’ ’twas handy to say de lill chile or honey.  Is you gwine to take her right away?”

“Yes, when the ‘Hatty’ goes back,” the Colonel replied, with a feeling of pity for the negro, whose face was quivering, and whose voice shook as he said, “It’s best, I s’pose, but ’twill be mighty lonesome hyar, with the chile gone from de ‘shady’ whar she plays, an’ from de cradle whar I rocks her, an’ from dese arms what totes her many a time, when she goes through de clarin’ in de woods.  You wouldn’t be wantin’ me an Mandy Ann to go wid you?  De chile is wonderfully ‘tached to us, an’ has some spells only we can manage.”

The Colonel shook his head.  Jake and Mandy Ann knew too much for him to take them North.  The child would soon forget its surroundings.  People would stop wondering after a while, and the past would be bridged over, as far as was possible.  On the whole the future looked brighter than it had done for years, and on this account the Colonel could afford to be very suave and gentle with this poor negro.

“No, Jake,” he said, very kindly.  “You would not be happy at the North, it is so different from the South.  I cannot take you, nor Mandy Ann, but I shall reward you for all you have done for the child, and for her mother.”

The last words came slowly, and there was a kind of tremor in the Colonel’s voice.

“I ’specs you are right,” Jake said meekly; “but it’ll be mighty hard, an’ what’s gwine to become of Mandy Ann?  Who does she ’long to, now Miss Dory an’ ole Miss is both dead?  I ’longs to myself, but what of Mandy Ann?”

Here was a problem the Colonel had not thought of.  But his mind worked rapidly and clearly, and he soon reached a decision, but before he could speak of it the child appeared.  It had taken a long time to wash and dress her, for the little hands were grimy, and the face very sticky, and a good deal of scrubbing had been necessary, with a good deal of squabbling, too—­and the Colonel had heard some of the altercations—­the child’s voice the louder, as she protested against the soap and water used so freely.  Jake had closed one of the doors to shut out the noise, saying as he did so, “She’s got a heap of sperrit, but not from de Harrises, dey hadn’t an atom.”

It did not puzzle the Colonel at all to know where the sperrit came from, and he did not like the child the less because of it.  She was in the room now, scrubbed till her face shone, and her hair, which was curly, lay in rings upon her forehead.  Mandy Ann had put on her best frock, a white one, stiff with starch, and standing out like a small balloon.  The Colonel liked her better in the limp, soiled gown, as he had seen her first, but she was clean, and she