let de lan’ grow up in trees ’fore he’d sell it to us.  An’ dere war Mr. Brayton; he buyed some lan’ and sole it to some cullud folks, an’ his ole frien’s got so mad wid him dat dey wouldn’t speak ter him, an’ he war borned down yere.  I tole ole Miss Anderson’s daughter dat we wanted ter git some homes ob our ownselbs.  She sez, ’Den you won’t want ter work for us?’ Jis’ de same as ef we could eat an’ drink our houses.  I tell yer, Robby, dese white folks don’t know eberything.”

“That’s a fact, Aunt Linda.”

“Den I sez ter John, ‘wen one door shuts anoder opens.’  An’ shore ‘nough, ole Gundover died, an’ his place war all in debt, an’ had to be sole.  Some Jews bought it, but dey didn’t want to farm it, so dey gib us a chance to buy it.  Dem Jews hez been right helpful to cullud people wen dey hab lan’ to sell.  I reckon dey don’t keer who buys it so long as dey gits de money.  Well, John didn’t gib in at fust; didn’t want to let on his wife knowed more dan he did, an’ dat he war ruled ober by a woman.  Yer know he is an’ ole Firginian, an’ some ob dem ole Firginians do so lub to rule a woman.  But I kep’ naggin at him, till I specs he got tired of my tongue, an’ he went and buyed dis piece ob lan’.  Dis house war on it, an’ war all gwine to wrack.  It used to belong to John’s ole marster.  His wife died right in dis house, an’ arter dat her husband went right to de dorgs; an’ now he’s in de pore-house.  My! but ain’t dem tables turned.  When we knowed it war our own, warn’t my ole man proud!  I seed it in him, but he wouldn’t let on.  Ain’t you men powerful ’ceitful?”

“Oh, Aunt Linda, don’t put me in with the rest!”

“I don’t know ’bout dat.  Put you all in de bag for ‘ceitfulness, an’ I don’t know which would git out fust.”

“Well, Aunt Linda, I suppose by this time you know how to read and write?”

“No, chile, sence freedom’s com’d I’se bin scratchin’ too hard to get a libin’ to put my head down to de book.”

“But, Aunt Linda, it would be such company when your husband is away, to take a book.  Do you never get lonesome?”

“Chile, I ain’t got no time ter get lonesome.  Ef you had eber so many chickens to feed, an’ pigs squealin’ fer somethin’ ter eat, an’ yore ducks an’ geese squakin’ ‘roun’ yer, yer wouldn’t hab time ter git lonesome.”

“But, Aunt Linda, you might be sick for months, and think what a comfort it would be if you could read your Bible.”

“Oh, I could hab prayin’ and singin’.  Dese people is mighty good ’bout prayin’ by de sick.  Why, Robby, I think it would gib me de hysterics ef I war to try to git book larnin’ froo my pore ole head.  How long is yer gwine to stay?  An’ whar is yer stoppin?”

“I got here to-day,” said Robert, “but I expect to stay several days.”

“Well, I wants yer to meet my ole man, an’ talk ’bout ole times.  Couldn’t yer come an’ stop wid me, or isn’t my house sniptious ’nuff?”