'long mindin' his business thar', an' don't pay no 'tention sca'cely ter
his plantation. He don't want us ter come 'plainin' ter him. He's mighty
busy--gits a heap er practice, makes a heap er money. He went down the
river onct, more'n a hunderd miles, ter cut somethin' off a man--I fawgits
what 'twas--an' the man paid him hunderds an' hunderds an' hunderds--I
fawgits how much 'twas."

Here Little Lizay found that Alston was no longer listening, but was
absorbed with the cotton-picking.

That day, to save the pickers' time, their bacon and corn pones were
brought out to the field by wagon in wooden trays and buckets. There were
three cotton-baskets filled with corn dodgers. Alston and Little Lizay sat
not far apart while eating their dinners.

"I reckon I's gittin' 'long tolerbul well ter-day," he said. "Dun know for
sar-tin, but looks like the pickin' wus heap handier than at fus'. Look
yere, Lizay: ef I know'd I'd git more'n a hunderd I'd he'p yer 'long: I'd
give yer the balance. Couldn't stave off all the floggin', but I might save
yer some licks."

"Take kere yer ownse'f, Als'on. I don't min' the las' few licks: they don't
never hut bad es the fus' ones." This was Little Lizay's answer, given with
glowing cheek and eyes looking down. To her own heart she said, "I likes
him better'n he likes me. Reckon he can't git over mou'nin' fer somebody in
Virginny." She wondered if he had left a wife back there: she would test
him. "Reckon yer'll hear from yer wife any mo', Als'on?" she said.

"Yes, reckon I will. She said she'd write me a letter. She didn't b'long
ter my ol' moster: she b'longed ter Squire Minor. I tuck a wife off'en our