I will take care of you."

She pressed her soft cheek against his hand.

"I know you will," she said, "and of Uncle Tom, too. I couldn't be
unhappy--we all three love each other so. I do not believe we shall be
unhappy, even if we are poor enough to be hungry."

So their moment of dismay ended in smiles. They were passing through a
phase of life in which it is not easy to be unhappy. Somehow things
always brightened when they drew near each other. His observation of this
truth was one of Tom's pleasures. He knew the year of waiting had managed
to fill itself with sweetness for them. Their hopes had been alternately
raised and dashed to earth; one day it seemed not improbable that they
were to be millionaires, the next that beggary awaited them after the
dwindling of their small stock of money; but they had shared their
emotions and borne their vicissitudes together.

When Tom entered the room they rose and met him with questioning faces.

"Was it good fortune?" they cried. "Did you see him, Uncle Tom? What did
he say?"

He told his story as lightly as possible, but it could not be
transformed, by any lightness of touch, into an encouraging episode. He
made a picture of Stamps sidling through the barely opened door, and was
terse and witty at the expense of his own discomfiture and consciousness
of incompetence. He laughed at himself and made them laugh, but when he
sat down in his accustomed seat there was a shade upon his face.

The children exchanged glances, the eyes of each prompting the other.
They must be at their brightest. They knew the sight of their happiness
warmed and lightened his heart always.

"He is tired and hungry," Sheba said. "We must give him a beautiful hot
supper. Rupert, we must set the table."

They had grown used to waiting upon themselves, and their domestic
services wore more or less the air of festivities. Sheba ran downstairs
to Miss Burford's kitchen, where Uncle Matt had prepared the evening meal
in his best manner. As the repasts grew more and more simple, Matt seemed
to display greater accomplishments.

"It's all very well, Miss Sheba," he had said once, when she praised the
skill with which he employed his scant resources. "It's mighty easy to be
a good cook when you'se got everythin' right to han'. The giftness is to
git up a fine table when you ain't got nuffin'. Dat's whar dish yer
niggah likes to show out. De Lard knows I'se got too much yere dis ve'y
minnit--to be a-d