e to another, with Cissie,
a wailing, wet-nosed little spoil-sport, trailing after them. And then,
with a wheeling of the years, they were scattered everywhere.

As the negroes passed the Berry cabin, Nan Berry came out with an old
shawl around her bristling spikes. She stopped the two men and drew them
to her gate with a gesture.

"Wha you gwine?"

"Jonesbuh."

"Whut you goin' do 'bout po-o-o' Cissie?"

"Goin' to see ef the sheriff won' take me 'stid o' Cissie."

"Tha's right," said Nan, nodding solemnly. "I hopes he will. You is mo'
used to it, Tump."

"Yeah, an' 'at jail sho ain't no place fuh a nice gal lak Cissie."

"Sho ain't," agreed Nan.

Peter interrupted to say he was sure the sheriff would not exchange.

The hopes of his listeners fell.

"Weh-ul," dragged out Nan, with a long face, "of co'se now it's lak dis:
ef Cissie goin' to stay in dat ja-ul, she's goin' to need some mo'
clo'es 'cep'n whut she's got on,--specially lak she is."

Tump stared down the swing of the crescent.

"'Fo' Gawd, dis sho don' seem lak hit's right to me," he said.

Nan let herself out at the rickety gate. "You niggers wait heah tull I
runs up to Miss Vannie's an' git some o' Cissie's clo'es fuh you to tote
her."

Tump objected.

"Jail ain't no place fuh clean clo'es. She jes better serve out her term
lak she is, an' wash up when she gits th'ugh."

"You fool nigger!" snapped Nan. "She kain't serve out her term lak she
is!"

"Da' 's so," said Tump.

The three stood silent, Nan and Tump lost in blankness, trying to think
of something to do for Cissie. Finally Nan said:

"I heah she done commit gran' larceny, an' they goin' sen' her to de
pen."

"Whut is gran' larceny?" asked Tump.

"It's takin' mo' at one time an' de white folks 'speck you to take,"
defined the woman. "Well, I'll go git her clo'es." She hurried off up
the crescent.

Peter and Tump waited in the Berry cabin for Nan's return. Outside, the
Berry cabin was the usual clapboard-roofed, weather-stained structure;
inside, it was dark, windowless, and strong with the odor of black folk.
Some children were playing around the hearth, roasting chestnuts. Their
elders sat in a circle of decrepit chairs. It was so dark that when
Peter first entered he could not make out the little group, but he soon
recognized their voices: Parson Ranson, Wince Washington, Jerry
Dillihay, and all of the Berry family.

They were talking of Cissie, of course. They hoped C