"Well, what should you keer?" said Tom Anderson. "Who looked arter you
when you war sole from your farder and mudder, an' neber seed dem any
more, and wouldn't know dem to-day ef you met dem in your dish?"

"Well, dats neither yere nor dere. Marse Robert couldn't help what his
father did. He war an orful mean man. But he's dead now, and gone to see
'bout it. But his wife war the nicest, sweetest lady dat eber I did see.
She war no more like him dan chalk's like cheese. She used to visit de
cabins, an' listen to de pore women when de overseer used to cruelize
dem so bad, an' drive dem to work late and early. An' she used to sen'
dem nice things when they war sick, and hab der cabins whitewashed an'
lookin' like new pins, an' look arter dere chillen. Sometimes she'd try
to git ole Marse to take dere part when de oberseer got too mean. But
she might as well a sung hymns to a dead horse. All her putty talk war
like porin water on a goose's back. He'd jis' bluff her off, an' tell
her she didn't run dat plantation, and not for her to bring him any
nigger news. I never thought ole Marster war good to her. I often
ketched her crying, an' she'd say she had de headache, but I thought it
war de heartache. 'Fore ole Marster died, she got so thin an' peaked I
war 'fraid she war gwine to die; but she seed him out. He war killed by
a tree fallin' on him, an' ef eber de debil got his own he got him. I
seed him in a vision arter he war gone. He war hangin' up in a pit,
sayin' 'Oh! oh!' wid no close on. He war allers blusterin', cussin', and
swearin' at somebody. Marse Robert ain't a bit like him. He takes right
arter his mother. Bad as ole Marster war, I think she jis' lob'd de
groun' he walked on. Well, women's mighty curious kind of folks anyhow.
I sometimes thinks de wuss you treats dem de better dey likes you."

"Well," said Tom, a little impatiently, "what's yer gwine to do? Is yer
gwine wid us, ef yer gits a chance?"