"Nina, Nina. I thank thee, oh, my Father, for sweet, precious
Nina."
That was all she could say, as with her face in the pillows, she
lay until the sun went down, and night fell a second time on
Sunnybank.
"No one shall tell her but myself," she thought as she descended
to Nina's room, where Arthur was telling of the discovery they had
made--a discovery for which he could not account, and about which
the negroes, congregated together in knots, were talking, each
offering his or her own theory with regard to the matter, and
never once thinking to question Mrs. Lamotte, who, they knew, had
been with Mrs. Bernard when she died.
"Oh, Miggie!" Nina cried. "HAVE you heard? do you know? Little
Miggie isn't there where we thought she was. She's gone. Nobody's
there but my other mother."
"Yes, I know," Edith answered, and laying her hand on Arthur's she
said, "Please, Mr. St Claire, go away awhile. I must see Nina
alone. Don't let anybody disturb us, will you? Go to Mrs.
Lamotte. Ask her what I mean. She can tell you.
Pages:
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456