Bad Hugh

The sultry August glided by, and in the warm, still days of late

September Hugh awoke from the sleep which had so long hung over him.

Raising himself upon his elbow, he glanced around the room. There were

the table, the stand, the mirror, the curtains, the vases, and the

flowers, but what--did he see aright, or did his eyes deceive him? and

the perspiration stood thickly about his mouth, as in the bouquet, that

morning arranged, he recognized the gay flowers of autumn, not such as

he had gathered for Alice, delicate summer flowers, but rich and

gorgeous with a later bloom.

"I must have been sick," he whispered, and pressing his hand to his

still throbbing head, he tried to reveal and form into some definite

shape the events which had seemed, and which seemed to him still, like

so many phantoms of the brain.

Was it a dream--his mother's tears upon his face, his mother's voice

calling him her Hughey boy, his mother's sobs beside him? Was it, could

it be all a dream that she, the Golden Haired, had been with him

constantly? No that was not a dream. She did not hate him, else she had

not prayed, and words of thanksgiving were going up to Golden Hair's

God, when a footstep in the hall announced the approach of some one.

Alice, perhaps, and Hugh lay very still, with half-shut eyes, until

Muggins, instead of Alice, appeared.

He was asleep, she said, as, standing on tiptoe, she scanned his face.

He was asleep, and in her own dialect Muggins talked to herself about

him as he lay there so still.

"Nice Mas'r Hugh--pretty Mas'r Hugh!" and Mug's little black hand was

laid caressingly on the face she admired so much. "I mean to ask God

about him, just like I see Miss Alice do," she continued, and stealing

to the opposite side of the room, Muggins kneeled down, and with her

face turned toward Hugh, she said: "If God is hearin' me, will He please

do all dat Miss Alice ax him 'bout curin' Mas'r Hugh."

This was too much for Hugh. The sight of that ignorant negro child,

kneeling by the window unmanned him entirely, and hiding his head

beneath the sheets, he sobbed aloud. With a nervous start, Mug arose

from her knees, and stood for an instant gazing in terror at the

trembling of the bedclothes.

"I'll bet he's in a fit. I mean to screech for Miss Alice," and Muggins

was about darting away, when Hugh's long arm caught and held her fast.

"Oh, de gracious, Mas'r Hugh," she cried, "you skeers me so. Does you

know me, Mas'r Hugh?" and she took a step toward him.

"Yes, I know you, and I want to talk a little. Where am I, Mug? What

room, I mean?"