I'd like ter see a little er de
worl' befo' I takes chances on leavin' it sudden; an', mo'over,
somebody's got ter take keer er de ole 'oman. But her time'll come some
er dese days, an den _his_ time'll be come--an' prob'ly mine. But I
ain' keerin' 'bout myse'f: w'en I git thoo wid him, it won' make no
diff'ence 'bout me."
Josh was evidently in dead earnest. Miller recalled, very vividly, the
expression he had seen twice on his patient's face, during the journey
to Wellington.
He had often seen Josh's mother, old Aunt Milly,--"Silly Milly," the
children called her,--wandering aimlessly about the street, muttering to
herself incoherently. He had felt a certain childish awe at the sight of
one of God's creatures who had lost the light of reason, and he had
always vaguely understood that she was the victim of human cruelty,
though he had dated it farther back into the past. This was his first
knowledge of the real facts of the case.
He realized, too, for a moment, the continuity of life, how inseparably
the present is woven with the past, how certainly the future will be but
the outcome of the present. He had supposed this old wound healed. The
negroes were not a vindictive people. If, swayed by passion or emotion,
they sometimes gave way to gusts of rage, these were of brief duration.
Absorbed in the contemplation of their doubtful present and their
uncertain future, they gave little thought to the past,--it was a dark
story, which they would willingly forget.
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