"Dun know for
sar-tin, but looks like the pickin' wus heap handier than at fus'. Look
yere, Lizay: ef I know'd I'd git more'n a hunderd I'd he'p yer 'long: I'd
give yer the balance. Couldn't stave off all the floggin', but I might save
yer some licks."

"Take kere yer ownse'f, Als'on. I don't min' the las' few licks: they don't
never hut bad es the fus' ones." This was Little Lizay's answer, given with
glowing cheek and eyes looking down. To her own heart she said, "I likes
him better'n he likes me. Reckon he can't git over mou'nin' fer somebody in
Virginny." She wondered if he had left a wife back there: she would test
him. "Reckon yer'll hear from yer wife any mo', Als'on?" she said.

"Yes, reckon I will. She said she'd write me a letter. She didn't b'long
ter my ol' moster: she b'longed ter Squire Minor. I tuck a wife off'en our
plantation. She's goin' ter ax her moster ter sell her an' the childun to
Mos' Hawton, and I's waitin' ter fin' out ef he'll sell 'um. I ain't goin'
ter cou't no other gal tell I fin's out."

"Yer hopes he'll sell her, don't yer?" Little Lizay asked with an anxious
heart.

"She wus a mighty good wife," said Alston, without committing himself by a
categorical answer. "Would seem like Ol' Virginny ter have her an' the
childun, but they's better off thar'. They couldn't pick cotton, I reckon.
Her moster an' mistiss thinks a heap uv her: she's one the cooks. I don't
reckon they kin spaw her."

"Don't yer, sho' 'nuff?"

"No, I don't reckon they kin, 'cause one Mis' Minor's cooks is gittin' ol'
an' can't see good--Aunt Juno. She wucks up flies an' sich into the cawn
bread. They wants ter put my wife into her place, but they can't git shet
with Aunt Juno: she's jis' boun' she'll do the white folks' cookin'. She
says thar' ain't no use in bein' free ef she can't do what she pleases:
they set her free Chrismus 'fo' las'. But law, Lizay! we mus' hurry up an'
get ter pickin'."

That night Lizay had gained on her basket of the preceding day by five and
a half pounds, and Alston had fallen behind his by four. But as he was
still over a hundred he escaped a flogging. Mr. Buck, being unable to
reckon exactly the number of lashes to which Little Lizay was entitled,
gave the rawhide the benefit of any doubt and ordered Alston to administer
seventy-five lashes.

The next day nothing noticeable occurred in the lives of these two slaves,
except that Alston's basket fell yet behind: Mr. Buck acknowledge