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Now, Marse Benson, w’at happen to yo’ las’ night am all in de co’se ob a lifetime, an’ Ah hope you ain’t got no bad feelin’s. Yo’ suttinly done learn somet’ing new in de way ob tricks. Good-bye, sah, an’ mah compliments to yo’, Marse Benson.”

Grégoire’s hair was soft, not so dark as her own, and possessed an inclination to curl about her slender fingers. “Grégoire,” she said, “you told me once that the Santien boys were a hard lot; what did you mean by that?” “Oh no,” he answered, laughing good-humoredly up into her eyes, “you did’n year me right. W’at I said was that we had a hard name in the country.

Those are my acts I’ve been counting,” the girl replied a little gingerly. “Yo’ ax? I don’ see nuttin’ ’cep’ a piece o’ papah plum fill up wid holes. W’at you call ax?” “Acts acts. Don’t you know what acts are?” “How you want me know? I neva ben to no school whar you larn all dat.”

Den w’y you neva said ‘convent’? I knows all ’bout convent. W’at you gwine do wid dem ax w’en de papah done all fill up?” handing the singular tablet back to her. “Oh,” replied Lucilla, “when I have thousands and thousands I gain twenty-five years’ indulgence.” “Is dat so?”

Jack Benson was on his feet in an instant. An angrier boy it would have been hard to find. From overhead came the sound of a loud guffaw. “Oh, you infernal scoundrel!” raged the submarine boy, shaking his fist in the dark. “W’at am de matter wid yo’, w’ite trash?” came the jeering query. “Let me get my hands on you, and I’ll show you!” quivered Benson. “Yah!

Oh, all sort o’ ways,” he admitted, with a certain shy brazenness; determined to go through with the ordeal. “Dey ’low you wants to cut de little gals’ plaits off, an’ sich I don’ know me.” “Do you suppose, Nathan,” said Thérèse attempting but poorly to hide her amusement at Melicent’s look of dismay, “that Miss Hosmer would bother herself with darkies’ plaits?” “Dat’s w’at I tink m’sef.

W’at was de ’casion o’ dat long delay?” “De ’casion? W’y man alive, I couldn’t git a dog gone soul in de town to wait on me.” “Dat boy kin lie, yas,” said Aunt Belindy, “God A’mighty knows ever time I ben to Centaville dem sto’ keepas ain’t done a blessed t’ing but settin’ down.” “Settin’ down Lord! dey warn’t settin’ down to-day; you heah me.”

Then he turned to Joçint, whose presence he had thus far ignored, and asked in a peremptory tone: “W’at did Woodson say ’bout watchin’ at the mill to-night? Did you ask him like I tole you?” “Yaas, me ax um: ee’ low ee an’ goin’. Say how Sylveste d’wan’ watch lak alluz. Say ee an’ goin’. Me don’ blem ’im neida, don’ ketch me out de ’ouse night lak dat fu no man.”

They were a good deal of one opinion in regard to Joçint having been only properly served in gettingw’at he done ben lookin’ fu’ dis long time.” Grégoire was rather looked upon as a clever instrument in the Lord’s service; and the occurrence pointed a moral which they were not likely to forget.

Lucilla approached the window and handed the woman a small square of stiff writing paper which was stuck with myriad tiny pin-holes; some of which she had been making when interrupted by Aunt Belindy. “W’at in God A’Mighty’s name you call dat ’ar?” the darkey asked examining the paper critically, as though expecting the riddle would solve itself before her eyes.