“Dis mine.  Me play here,” the child said, more intent upon her play-house than upon her mother’s grave.

The play-house was a simple affair, which Jake had constructed.  There were two pieces of board for a floor, and a small bench for a table, on which were bits of broken cups and saucers, the slice of bread and molasses the child had left when she went to see the stranger, a rag doll, fashioned from a cob, with a cloth head stuffed with bran, and a book, soiled and worn as from frequent usage.  The child made the Colonel look at the doll which she called Judy, “after ole mammy Judy, who came nigh havin’ de pow’ at de funeral, an’ who done made it for her,” Jake explained.  The book—­a child’s reader—­was next taken up, the little girl saying, “Mamma’s book—­me read,” and opening it she made a pretense of reading something which sounded like “Now I lay me.”  The Colonel, who had freed his hand from the fingers which had held it so fast, looked inquiringly at Jake, who said, “Miss Dory’s book; she done read it a sight, ’case ‘twas easier readin’ dan dem books from Palatka; an’ she could larn somethin’ from it, but de long words floored her an’ me, too, who tried to help her.”

For a moment the Colonel seemed agitated, and taking the book from the child he said, “Can I have it?”

“No, sar!” Jake answered emphatically.  “I wouldn’t part wid it for de world.  It’s a part of Miss Dory, an’ she tried so hard to read good an’ be a lady.  Mandy Ann lived a spell wid de quality, an’ got some o’ dar ways, an’ I got some in Virginny, an’ we tole ’em to her, an’ she done tried till towards de las’ she gin it up. ‘’Taint no use,’ she said to me.  ’I’m ’scouraged.  I can never be a lady.  Ef he comes after I’m dead, tell him I tried an’ couldn’t.’  She meant the chile’s fader, her husband.  Ain’t you her husband?”

It was a direct question, and Jake’s honest eyes were looking steadily at the Colonel, whose lips were white, and opened and shut two or three times before he answered, “I am nobody’s husband, and never shall be.  I knew your young mistress, and was interested in her, and shall care for the child.  Don’t ask me any more questions.”

Up to this moment Jake had felt quite softened towards the man he had once thought to kill.  But now he wanted to knock him down, but restrained himself with a great effort, and answered, “I axes yer pardon, but I’se allus thought so—­an’—­an’—­I thinks so still.”

To this there was no reply, and Jake, who had sent home his shaft, which he knew was making the proud man quiver, spoke next of a monument for Miss Dory, and asked where he’d better get it.

“Where you think best,” the Colonel answered.  “Only get a good one, and send the bill to me.”

“Yes, sar; thank’ee, Mas’r,” Jake said, beginning to feel somewhat less like knocking the Colonel down.  “What shall I put on it?” he asked, and the Colonel replied, “What was on her coffin?”