"Po' lamb! po' lamb! Has dey done killed Aunt Cindy's own blessed child?
May de Lawd' stroy wid his wrath dem what stole her away; what break dat
angel heart; what left--"
"Lift her feet," said Doctor James, assisting to support the drooping
form. "Where is her room? She must be put to bed."
"In here, suh." The woman nodded her kerchiefed head toward a door.
"Dat's Miss Amy's room."
They carried her in there, and laid her on the bed. Her pulse was faint,
but regular. She passed from the swoon, without recovering
consciousness, into a profound slumber.
"She is quite exhausted," said the physician. "Sleep is a good remedy.
When she wakes, give her a toddy--with an egg in it, if she can take it.
How did she get that bruise upon her forehead?"
"She done got a lick there, suh. De po' lamb fell--No, suh"--the old
woman's racial mutability swept her into a sudden flare of indignation
--"old Cindy ain't gwineter lie for dat debble. He done it, suh. May
de Lawd wither de hand what--dar now! Cindy promise her sweet lamb she
ain't gwine tell.
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