Mr. Singleton made a negative gesture with his head, flinging himself down again.

“Matty? Matty, the nigger? No, of course not. Matty is nothing to any one who hasn’t money, and you’ll have none to pay her, or any one else, after I’m gone. You must eat and live for three long years. Do you understand that?... Sit back in your chair and don’t fidget,” he concluded.

The girl obeyed, and a silence fell between them. The thought of the wonderful white presence of which Matty had told her faded from her mind. Her heart lay stone-like below her tightening throat, for her former world and all the dear familiar things it held were to be dashed from her, as a rose jar is broken on a marble floor, by a single decision of the thin, tall father whom yesterday she had not known. She understood that if her uncle succeeded in his wicked plans, she, too, would join that small number of people, dead and buried, under the pines. Her father’s words brought the cemetery, with its broken cross and headstones, its low toolhouse, and the restless night spirits, closer than Matty, with her vivid, 21 ghastly tales, had ever done. In the past, Matty had stood between her and her fears; in the future, there would be only a stranger, her uncle, the man her father had just warned her against. At length Mr. Singleton coughed painfully, and spoke with evident effort.

21

“The doctor told me not long ago I might die at any moment. That’s what made me escape—I mean, what drove me home.”

He rose and walked nervously up and down the room.

“The doctor made me think of you. I can’t live long.”

“It’s awful bad,” answered the girl, sighing. “I wouldn’t know where to go if there wasn’t any Matty—or—you.”

Her voice lowered on the last word, and she continued: “I wish I had my mother. Matty says mothers kiss their girls and make over ’em like Milly Ann does with her kittens—do they? Some of ’em?”

The father glanced curiously into the small, earnest, uplifted face.

“I couldn’t help being your girl,” pursued Virginia. “I’d have had another father if I could, one who’d ’ve loved me. Matty says even fathers like their kids sometimes—a little.” She 

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