“Not worms,” corrected Amanda; “germs.  That ain’t no superstition; that’s a scientific fac’.  They is so little you don’t see ’em; but they’s there all right.  Mis’ Bertram says they’s ever’where—­in the water, in the air, crawlin’ up the very walls.”

Gordon Lee looked fearfully at the ceiling, as if he expected an immediate attack from that direction.

“I ain’t sayin’ dey ain’t, Amanda.  Come to think of hit, seems lak I ’member ’em scrunchin’ ‘g’inst my teeth when I eats.  I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ’t all ’bout white folks superstitions,—­I ‘spec’ dey’s true, ebery one ob ’em,—­but hit look’ lak you oughtn’t to shet yer min’ ag’inst de colored signs dat done come down f’om yer maw an’ yer paw, an’ yer gran’maw an’ gran’paw fer back as Adam.  I ‘spec’ Adam hisself was conjured.  Lak as not de sarpint done tricked him into regalin’ hisself wid dat apple.  But I s’pose you’d lay hit on de germs whut was disportin’ deyselves on de apple.  But dey ain’t no use in ‘sputin’ dat p’int, ‘ca’se de fac’ remains dat de apple’s done et.”

“I ain’t astin’ you to dispute nothin’,” cried Amanda, by this time in a high state of indignation.  “I’m a-talkin’ scientific fac’s, an’ you’re talkin’ nigger foolishness.  The ignorance jes nachully oozes outen the pores o’ your skin.”

Gordon Lee, thus arraigned, lay with contracted brows and protruding lips, nursing his wrongs, while Amanda disappeared into the adjoining room, there to vent her wrath on the pots and pans about the stove.

Despite the fact that it was after eight o’clock and she had been on her feet all day, she set about preparing the evening meal for her husband with all the care she had bestowed on the white folks’ supper.

Soon the little cabin was filled with the savory odor of bacon, and when the corn battercakes began to sizzle promisingly, and she flipped them over dexterously with a fork, Gordon Lee forgot his ill humor, and through the door watched the performance with growing eagerness.

“Git yerself propped up,” Amanda called when the cakes were encircled with crisp, brown edges.  “I’ll git the bread-board to put acrost yer knees.  You be eatin’ this soup while I dishes up the bacon an’ onions.  How’d you like to have a little jam along with yer apple-dumplin’?”

Gordon Lee, sitting up in bed with this liberal repast spread on the bread-board across his knees, and his large, bare feet, with their pink adornments, rising like ebony tombstones at the foot of the bed, forgot his grievance.

“Jam!” he repeated.  “Well, dat dere Sally Ann Slocum’s dumplin’s may need jam, er Maria Johnsing’s, but dis heah dumplin’ is complete in hitself.  Ef dey ever was a pusson dat could assemble a’ apple-dumplin’ so’s you swoller hit ’most afore hit gits to yer mouf, dat pusson is you.”

Harmony being thus restored, and the patient having emptied all the dishes before him, Amanda proceeded to clear up.  Her small, energetic figure moved briskly from one room to the other, and as she worked she sang in a low, chanting tone: