thought hangs a new weight of dread upon
me,--of course then Nucky will have to leave school and go home and take
up Blant's burdens. My own selfish grief in the thought of losing Nucky
ought not to protrude itself in the face of greater troubles,--but I
have already lost so much,--must everything I set my affection upon be
taken?

_Saturday._

Yesterday Philip astonished me by asking for the wash-job. If there is
anything on the place he has often expressed contempt for, it is the
duties of the unfortunate wash-boy, who must rise before day on
Saturdays to build fires and fill kettles, and then for nine long hours
toil wearily, chopping wood, carrying water, and otherwise "slaving" for
the wash-girls, until, when playtime comes, he is generally too tired to
play; not to mention that every day in the week he must tend the
ironing-stove, and, deepest indignity of all, take a hand at the
ironing. No job is so consistently avoided by every boy on the place;
while the carpenter- and shop-work, which Philip does exclusively, is
considered the most aristocratic and desirable of all. I gladly
transferred him, however; and this morning the explanation appeared,
when Dilsey Warrick tripped over with the other nine wash-girls, having
been shifted from the weaving to the washing department.

_Sunday Night._

After church to-day, I myself heard some of the solid men of the
community talking about Blant's case; and their words confirmed Nucky's
statement of last week. I gather that public sentiment is pretty well
crystallized into the feeling that a couple of years in Frankfort is
about the least the reluctant law can do when forced to extremities.
Sympathy for Blant is strong; but the determination is equally strong
that his many lawless acts cannot be longer overlooked, and that the
majesty of the law must be vindicated. Nucky, pale of face, hurried to
the jail after hearing the talk, and Taulbee said to me as we came home,

"It looks now like Blant is bound for Frankfort; but I'll lay my hat he
don't never get there,--not if Trojan can help it."

"He'll have to go if he is sent," I replied; "now he has put himself in
the hands of the law, he must take his medicine, whatever it is."

"Who,--Blant? Him swallow anything he don't want to? I reckon not.
There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip."

_Wednesday, first week in March._

More distressing news from Trigger, when the mail-boy stopped to re