“Whar is dey, honey? ‘a bird in dis han’ am worf two dozen in a bush,’ as my ole masta used to say, wen de traders cum up to buy his corn an’ cotton, an’ I always sawed de dollars come down mighty quick after dat sayin’ of his’n; for I used to watch round the dinin’-room pretty constant an’ close in dem days, totin’ in poplar-chips an’ corn-cobs for kin’lin’ an’ litin’ masta’s long clay pipes—­none ob de common sort, I tells you—­an’ brushin’ up de harf an’ keepin’ off’ de flies, and so forf.  You see I was a little shaver in dem days, an’ masta liked my Congo straction, an’ petted me a heap, an’ I never seed the cotton-field till my ole masta died; den dey put me out ob de house, because Mass Jack Dillard’s father—­dat was my ole mistis’s own step-brother’s secon’ son—­he ‘cused me ob stealin’ his gole pencil-case wrongfully—­like I had any use fur his writin’ ’tensils!” (indignantly).

“Dinah,” I adjured, cutting short the stream of her narrative, “for God’s sake, see Mr. McDermot, and tell him of my situation!  He shall have a thousand dollars to-morrow, and you also shall have money enough to buy your whole family, and bring them hither, if you will but assist me to escape this night.  Don’t stand and look at me, woman, but act at once, if you have a human heart.  You must help me now, or never.”

“You mus’ tink I’s one ob de born fools, Miss Mirimy, to bl’eve all dat stuff!  Doesn’t I know you loss all your trunks on de ‘Scusco, an’ wasn’t you a pore gal, teachin’ white folks’s chilluns fur a livin’ before?  I has hearn all dat discounted since I come into dis ’stablishment.  We all knows as how teachers is de meanest kine of white trash gwine; still, I specs you might’ly.  You has been ob de quality; any nigger can see dat wid half an eye open; an’ you has got more sense in de end ob yo little finger, ef you is crazy, dan all de res tied up in a bunch ob fedders!  Wat I does for you, chile, I does for lub ob yo purliteness” (hesitating here).  “You hasn’t anoder ob dem gole-pieces anywhar, like dat you gib me befo’, has you?  I’se bery bad off fur ’baccer, I is, indeed, chile, an’ de pay is mighty slow in dis house.”

“I have not a five-penny bit, Dinah, not one copper cent, if it were to save my life or yours.”

“Is dat ring of yours good guinea gole, honey?” asked the mercenary creature, leering at it.  “It looks mighty bright and pretty, it does dat!  But mebbe its nuffin but pinchbeck, after all.”

“It looks what it is, Dinah”—­and, after a moment’s consideration, I drew it from my finger.  “If I give you this, will you promise to deliver my message to McDermot faithfully?”

“Sartain sure, honey, but tell me again wat it is; I forgits de small patticklers.”