It was a smallish,
oldish, grayish man who opened the door and smiled in query at me.
"I am John Cowles, sir," I said, hesitating. "Yourself I do not seem to
know--"
"My name is Halliday, Mr. Cowles," he replied. A flush of humiliation
came to my face.
"I should know you. You were my father's creditor."
"Yes, sir, my firm was the holder of certain obligations at the time of
your father's death. You have been gone very long without word to us.
Meantime, pending any action--"
"You have moved in!"
"I have ventured to take possession, Mr. Cowles. That was as your mother
wished. She waived all her rights and surrendered everything, said all
the debts must be paid--"
"Of course--"
"And all we could prevail upon her to do was to take up her quarters
there in one of the little houses."
He pointed with this euphemism toward our old servants' quarters. So
there was my mother, a woman gently reared, tenderly cared for all her
life, living in a cabin where once slaves had lived. And I had come back
to her, to tell a story such as mine!
"I hope," said he, hesitating, "that all these matters may presently be
adjusted. But first I ask you to influence your mother to come back into
the place and take up her residence.
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