“A mighty long way,” said Alston; and then he was silent, his thoughts going back and back over the long way.

Lizay recalled him:  “Was yer sorry yer had ter whip me?”

“I was mighty sorry, Little Lizay,” he replied with a strong tone of tenderness that made her heart beat faster.  “I would er knocked that white nigger down, but it wouldn’t er he’ped nothin’.  Things would er jus’ been wusser.”

“Yes,” Lizay assented, “nothin’ won’t he’p us:  ain’t no use in nothin’.”

“Reckon I’ll go in an’ go ter sleep,” said Alston:  “got ter git up early in the mawnin’.”

He was up early the next morning, he and Little Lizay being again in the cotton-field before dawn.  All through the day there was, as before, persistent devotion to the picking; then the holding on after dusk for one more pound; the same result at night—­the man up to the required figure, the woman behind, this time forty-one pounds behind.  Again she received a cowhiding at Alston’s hands.

“What yer mean by this yere foolin’?” Mr. Buck demanded in a rage of Little Lizay.  “Yer reckon I’s gwine ter stan’ this yere?  Two hunderd an’ fawty-seven ‘gin two hunderd an’ six!  It’s all laziness an’ mulishness.  I’ll git yer outen that thar’ notch, else I’ll kill yer.  Look yere:  ter-morrer, ef yer don’t come ter taw, I’ll give yer twict es many licks es the poun’s yer falls behin’.”

Did this threat frighten Little Lizay out of her devotion?

“Two hunderd is ’nuff fer a little gal like yer,” Alston said the next morning.  “Save my life, I can’t pick no more’n a hunderd an’ a few poun’s mo’.  I wouldn’t stan’ ter be flogged ef I’d done my shar’.”

“Got ter stan’ it—­can’t he’p myse’f.”

“I’d go ter town an’ tell Mos’ Hawton.  I’s tolerbul sho’ he wouldn’t ’low yer ter git twict es many licks, nohow.  Mos’ Hawton’s tolerbul good ter his black folks, ain’t he?”

“Yes, tolerbul—­to the house-sarvants he’s got in town; but he jist goes ‘long mindin’ his business thar’, an’ don’t pay no ’tention sca’cely ter his plantation.  He don’t want us ter come ‘plainin’ ter him.  He’s mighty busy—­gits a heap er practice, makes a heap er money.  He went down the river onct, more’n a hunderd miles, ter cut somethin’ off a man—­I fawgits what ‘twas—­an’ the man paid him hunderds an’ hunderds an’ hunderds—­I fawgits how much ’twas.”

Here Little Lizay found that Alston was no longer listening, but was absorbed with the cotton-picking.

That day, to save the pickers’ time, their bacon and corn pones were brought out to the field by wagon in wooden trays and buckets.  There were three cotton-baskets filled with corn dodgers.  Alston and Little Lizay sat not far apart while eating their dinners.

“I reckon I’s gittin’ ’long tolerbul well ter-day,” he said.  “Dun know for sar-tin, but looks like the pickin’ wus heap handier than at fus’.  Look yere, Lizay:  ef I know’d I’d git more’n a hunderd I’d he’p yer ’long:  I’d give yer the balance.  Couldn’t stave off all the floggin’, but I might save yer some licks.”