At this question, Peter’s jaw suddenly dropped and guilt and consternation swept over his wrinkled black face. His protruding underlip retreated to normal as swiftly as a turtle withdraws its head beneath its shell.
“ Miss Melly. Ah is gittin’ ole, Ah spec’, ‘cause Ah clean fergit fer de moment whut she sent me fer, an’ it’s important too. Ah got a letter fer you. Miss Pitty wouldn’ trust de mails or nobody but me ter bring it an’—”
“ A letter? For me? Who from?”
“ Well’m, it’s — Miss Pitty, she says ter me, ‘You, Peter, you brek it gen’ly ter Miss Melly,’ an’ Ah say —”
Melly rose from the steps, her hand at her heart.
“ Ashley! Ashley! He’s dead!”
“ No’m! No’m!” cried Peter, his voice rising to a shrill bawl, as he fumbled in the breast pocket of his ragged coat. “He’s ‘live! D
