"What's de matter wid yer? Been sick?" proceeded France, with a
roguish twinkle of the eye. "Specs you's had measles or 'sumption,--
yer's pale as deaf; and yer hair,--laws, sakes, it'll a'most stan'
alone! de kind's all done gone out of it."

"Never had much," said Tidy, laughing. "It's most straight, see;"
and she pulled one of the short ringlets out with her fingers.
"And I isn't sick, neither; 'tis my 'plexion."

"'Plexion!" repeated Frances, with a tone of derision;
"'tis white folks has 'plexion; niggers don't hab none.
Don't grow white skins in dese yer parts."

"White's as good as black, I s'pose, a'n't it?" answered Tidy,
diverted by the droll manners of her new acquaintance.
"I don't see no odds nohow."

"'Ta'n't 'spectable, dat's all. Brack's de fashion here on dis
yer plantation. 'Tis tough, b'ars whippin's and hard knocks.
Whew! Hi! Ke! Missus'll cut ye all up to slivers fust time."

"Does missus whip?"

"Reckon she does jest dat ting. Reckons you'll feel it right
smart 'fore you're much older. Hi! she whips like a driver,--
cuts de skin all off de knuckles in little less dan no time at all.
Yer'll see; make yer curl all up."

It was not a very pleasant prospect for Tidy, to be sure;
but, more amused than frightened, she went on with her inquiries.