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"Do you mean ter 'low that she wuz changed in her cradle, er is she too good-lookin' to be my daughter?" "My deah Mis' Walden! it 'ud be wastin' wo'ds fer me ter say dat dey ain' no young lady too good-lookin' ter be yo' daughter; but you're lookin' so young yo'sef dat I'd ruther take her fer yo' sister." "Yas," rejoined Mis' Molly, with animation, "they ain't many years between us.
An' w'en he turnt roun' an' sta'ted back in de woods, he heared de same thing behin' 'im. "'Turnt ter clay! turnt ter clay! turnt ter clay! "Dem wo'ds kep' ringin' in 'is yeahs 'til he fin'lly 'lowed dey wuz boun' ter be so, er e'se dey wouldn' a b'en tol ter 'im, an' dat he had libbed on clay so long an' had eat so much, dat he must 'a' jes nach'ly turnt ter clay!"
Den she could 'a' said yes all right an' proper widout a belittlin' huhse'f. But 'stead o' dat he mus' go a ta'in' off jes' ez soon ez de fus' wo'ds come outen huh mouf. Put' nigh brekin' huh hea't. I clah to goodness, I nevah did see sich ca'in's on." Several weeks passed before Bartley returned to his home.
Isaac laid a hand upon his shoulder and smiled at him benevolently. "How do, Brothah Hayward," he said, "you been sittin' unner de drippin's of de gospel, too?" "Yes, I has been listenin' to de wo'ds of my fellow-laborah in de vineya'd of de Lawd," replied the preacher with some dignity, for he saw vanishing the vision of his own glory in a revivified sermon on predestination.
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