"You know, Popsy, I think he knows I'm here," Dearest said. "Nothing
definite, of course; he just feels there's something here that he can't
see."
"I wonder. I've noticed something like that. Funny, he doesn't seem to
mind, either. Colored people are usually scary about ghosts and spirits
and the like.... I'm going to ask him." He raised his voice. "Sergeant,
do you seem to notice anything peculiar around here, lately?"
The repetitious little two-tone melody broke off short. The
soldier-servant lifted his face and looked into the Colonel's. His brow
wrinkled, as though he were trying to express a thought for which he had
no words.
"Yo' notice dat, too, suh?" he asked. "Why, yessuh, Cunnel; Ah don' know
'zackly how t' say hit, but dey is som'n, at dat. Hit seems like ...
like a kinda ... a kinda _blessedness_." He chuckled. "Dat's hit,
Cunnel; dey's a blessedness. Wondeh iffen Ah's gittin' r'ligion, now?"
* * * * *
"Well, all this is very interesting, I'm sure, Doctor," T. Barnwell
Powell was saying, polishing his glasses on a piece of tissue and
keeping one elbow on his briefcase at the same time.
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