lantation what 'tis to serve
master faithfully. You see, I believe in you, my man."

"Thanky, moster. I'll wuck fer yer haud's I kin. Please God, I'll sarve yer
faithful."

"Of cou'se, Lizay, you'll go back to pickin' cotton, an' don't let me hear
any mo' of you' nonsense--helpin' a strappin' fellow twice you' size. An'
tell Buck I won't have him whippin' any my negroes ev'ry night in the week.
Confound it! a mule couldn't stan' it. If I've got a negro that needs
floggin' ev'ry night, I'll sell him or give 'im away, or turn 'im out to
grass to shif' for himself. I'll be out there soon, an' 'ten' to things. If
anybody needs a floggin', tell Buck to send 'im to me. Tell the folks to
work like clever Christians, an' they shall have a fus'-rate Christmas--a
heap of Christmas-gifts."

"Yes, moster."

"Do you an' Lizay want to get married right away, or wait till Christmas?"

Alston and Little Lizay looked at each other, smiling in an embarrassed
way.

"But, moster," said Alston, "I's got a wife an' fou' childun in Ol'
Virginny, an' I promused I'd wait an' wouldn't git morred ag'in tell she'd
write ter me ef her moster'd sell her; an' I was goin' ter ax yer ter buy
'er."

"You needn't pester yourself about that. I got a letter for you the other
day from her," the doctor said, fumbling in his pockets.

"Yer did, sah?" Alston said with interest.

"Yes: here it is. Can you read? or shall I read it to you?"

"Ef yer please, moster."

Then Dr. Horton read:

"MY DEAR B'LOVED HUSBUN': Miss Marthy Jane takes my pen in han' ter let yer
know I's well, an' our childun's well, an' all the black folks is tolerbul
well 'cept Juno: her's got the polsy tolerbul bad. All the white folks
'bout yere is will 'cept mistis: her's got the dumps. All the childun say,
Howdy? the black folks all says, Howdy? an' Pete says, Howdy? an' Andy
says, Howdy? an' Viny says, Howdy? an' Cinthy says, Howdy? an' Tony Tucker
says, Howdy? and Brudder Thomas Jeff'son Hollan' says, Howdy? Last time I
see'd Benj'man Franklins Bedfud, he says, ''Member, an' don't fawgit, the
fus' time yer writes, ter tell Als'on, Howdy?'

"Yer 'fectionate wife, CHLOE."

"P.S. Mistis says her can't spaw me, so 'tain't no use waitin' no longer
fer me. 'Sides, I got 'gaged ter git morred: I wus morred Sundy 'fo' las'
at quat'ly meetin'. Brudder Mad'son Mason puffawmed the solemn cer'mony,
an' preached a beautiful discou'se. Me an' my secon' husbun' gits 'long
fus'-rate.