A song rose from the cowpens just then. Full, clear, and quivering, it
seemed suddenly to still everything else into silence. In a flash, Bob's
grin settled into a look of sullen dejection, and, with his ear cocked
and drinking in the song, and with his eye on the corner of the barn, he
waited. From the cowpens was coming a sturdy negro girl with a bucket of
foaming milk in each hand and a third balanced on her head, singing with
all the strength of her lungs. In a moment she passed the corner.

"Molly--say, Molly."

The song stopped short.

"Say, honey, wait a minute--jes a minute, won't ye?" The milkmaid kept
straight ahead, and Bob's honeyed words soured suddenly.

"Go on, gal, think yo'self mighty fine, don't ye? Nem' min'!"

Molly's nostrils swelled to their full width, and, at the top of her
voice, she began again.

"Go on, nigger, but you jes wait."

Molly sang on:

"Take up yo' cross, oh, sinner-man."

Before he knew it, Bob gave the response with great unction:

"Yes, Lawd."