The sultry August glided by, and in the warm, still days of late
September Hugh awoke from the sleep which had so long hung over him.
Raising himself upon his elbow, he glanced around the room. There were
the table, the stand, the mirror, the curtains, the vases, and the
flowers, but what--did he see aright, or did his eyes deceive him? and
the perspiration stood thickly about his mouth, as in the bouquet, that
morning arranged, he recognized the gay flowers of autumn, not such as
he had gathered for Alice, delicate summer flowers, but rich and
gorgeous with a later bloom.
"I must have been sick," he whispered, and pressing his hand to his
still throbbing head, he tried to reveal and form into some definite
shape the events which had seemed, and which seemed to him still, like
so many phantoms of the brain.
Was it a dream--his mother's tears upon his face, his mother's voice
calling him her Hughey boy, his mother's sobs beside him? Was it, could
it be all a dream that she, the Golden Haired, had been with him
constantly? No that was not a dream. She did not hate him, else she had
not prayed, and words of thanksgiving were going up to Golden Hair's
God, when a footstep in the hall announced the approach of some one.
Alice, perhaps, and Hugh lay very still, with half-shut eyes, until
Muggins, instead of Alice, appeared.
He was asleep, she said, as, standing on tiptoe, she scanned his face.
He was asleep, and in her own dialect Muggins talked to herself about
him as he lay there so still.
"Nice Mas'r Hugh--pretty Mas'r Hugh!" and Mug's little black hand was
laid caressingly on the face she admired so much. "I mean to ask God
about him, just like I see Miss Alice do," she continued, and stealing
to the opposite side of the room, Muggins kneeled down, and with her
face turned toward Hugh, she said: "If God is hearin' me, will He please
do all dat Miss Alice ax him 'bout curin' Mas'r Hugh."
This was too much for Hugh. The sight of that ignorant negro child,
kneeling by the window unmanned him entirely, and hiding his head
beneath the sheets, he sobbed aloud. With a nervous start, Mug arose
from her knees, and stood for an instant gazing in terror at the
trembling of the bedclothes.
"I'll bet he's in a fit. I mean to screech for Miss Alice," and Muggins
was about darting away, when Hugh's long arm caught and held her fast.
"Oh, de gracious, Mas'r Hugh," she cried, "you skeers me so. Does you
know me, Mas'r Hugh?" and she took a step toward him.
"Yes, I know you, and I want to talk a little. Where am I, Mug? What
room, I mean?"