when you was a low-down nigger an' got de debbil in yer, an' ole marsa
hear it an' send de oberseer to de quarters for you to come to de
little room in de big house whar de walls was all books an' whar his
desk was, 't wa'n't no birds about his voice den,--mo' like de thunder."

"Did he whip his negroes?"

"No, sah; don't reckelmember a single lick laid on airy nigger dat de
marsa knowed of; but when dey got so bad--an' some niggers is dat
way--den dey was sold to de swamp lan's. He wouldn't hab 'em round
'ruptin' his niggers, he use' ter say.

"Hab coffee, sah? Won't take I a minute to bile it. Colonel ain't been
drinkin' none lately, an' so I don't make none."

I nodded my head, and Chad closed the door softly, taking with him a
small cup and saucer, and returning in a few minutes followed by that
most delicious of all aromas, the savory steam of boiling coffee.

"My Marsa John," he continued, filling the cup with the smoking
beverage, "never drank nuffin' but tea, eben at de big dinners when
all de gemmen had coffee in de little cups--dat's one ob 'em you's
drink-in' out ob now; dey ain't mo' dan fo' on 'em left. Old marsa
would have his pot ob tea: Henny use' ter make it for him; makes it
now for Miss Nancy.

"Henny was a young gal den, long 'fo' we was married. Henny b'longed
to Colonel Lloyd Barbour, on de next plantation to ourn.

"Mo' coffee, Major?" I handed Chad the empty cup. He refilled it,