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It was me dressed Miss Maria de day she married wid yo' pa, en it was me dressed 'er for de coffin. You en me been stannin' togedder ever sence. How I gwine stan' by my alonese 'f now? I ole now, Mist' Peter." "Emma," said Peter, after a pause, "tell me exactly what you want me to do for you and if I can I'll do it." "I wants to go wid you.
I jes' natchelly ain't gwine stay 'yuh by my alonese 'f," wept Emma. Peter looked at her with the sort of tenderness one must be born in the South to understand. Born in the last years of slavery, brought up in wild Reconstruction days, Emma couldn't read or write. She wasn't amenable to discipline. She was, as Cassius had complained, "so contrary she mus' be 'flicted wid de moonness."
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