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"Lawd, Marse Dan, I'se done hyern dat soun' twel I'm plum sick er it," responded Big Abel, carefully measuring out a dose of arsenic, which had taken the place of quinine in a country where medicine was becoming as scarce as food. "You des swallow dis yer stuff right down en tu'n over en go fas' asleep agin." Taking the glass with trembling hands, Dan drained it eagerly.
"Dat's all I ever hyern, honey, en I b'lieve hit's all Ole Marster ever hyern eeder, case w'en I tuck his gun out er de rack de nex' day, he was settin' up des es prim in de parlour a-sippin' a julep wid Marse Peyton Ambler, en I hyern 'im kinder whisper, 'Molly, she's en angel, Peyton en he ain' never call Ole Miss en angel twel he loss 'er car'ige."
Cupid brought the kettle, grumbling. "I ain' never hyern tell er sich a mouf es ole Miss es got," he muttered. "I ain' sayin' nuttin' agin er stomick, case she ain' never let de stuff git down dat fur en de stomick hit ain' never tase it yit." "Oh, stop grumbling, Uncle Cupid," returned Betty, moving briskly about the room.
"Dar, now," cried Uncle Levi, halting in the path while a gleam of the wistful humour of his race leaped to his eyes. "Dar, now, is you ever hyern de likes er dat? Mah'ed! Cose I'se mah'ed. I'se mah'ed quick'en Marse Bolling. Ain't you never hyern tell er Sarindy?" "Sarindy?" repeated the girl, questioningly.
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