“Take kere yer ownse’f, Als’on.  I don’t min’ the las’ few licks:  they don’t never hut bad es the fus’ ones.”  This was Little Lizay’s answer, given with glowing cheek and eyes looking down.  To her own heart she said, “I likes him better’n he likes me.  Reckon he can’t git over mou’nin’ fer somebody in Virginny.”  She wondered if he had left a wife back there:  she would test him.  “Reckon yer’ll hear from yer wife any mo’, Als’on?” she said.

“Yes, reckon I will.  She said she’d write me a letter.  She didn’t b’long ter my ol’ moster:  she b’longed ter Squire Minor.  I tuck a wife off’en our plantation.  She’s goin’ ter ax her moster ter sell her an’ the childun to Mos’ Hawton, and I’s waitin’ ter fin’ out ef he’ll sell ‘um.  I ain’t goin’ ter cou’t no other gal tell I fin’s out.”

“Yer hopes he’ll sell her, don’t yer?” Little Lizay asked with an anxious heart.

“She wus a mighty good wife,” said Alston, without committing himself by a categorical answer.  “Would seem like Ol’ Virginny ter have her an’ the childun, but they’s better off thar’.  They couldn’t pick cotton, I reckon.  Her moster an’ mistiss thinks a heap uv her:  she’s one the cooks.  I don’t reckon they kin spaw her.”

“Don’t yer, sho’ ’nuff?”

“No, I don’t reckon they kin, ‘cause one Mis’ Minor’s cooks is gittin’ ol’ an’ can’t see good—­Aunt Juno.  She wucks up flies an’ sich into the cawn bread.  They wants ter put my wife into her place, but they can’t git shet with Aunt Juno:  she’s jis’ boun’ she’ll do the white folks’ cookin’.  She says thar’ ain’t no use in bein’ free ef she can’t do what she pleases:  they set her free Chrismus ‘fo’ las’.  But law, Lizay! we mus’ hurry up an’ get ter pickin’.”

That night Lizay had gained on her basket of the preceding day by five and a half pounds, and Alston had fallen behind his by four.  But as he was still over a hundred he escaped a flogging.  Mr. Buck, being unable to reckon exactly the number of lashes to which Little Lizay was entitled, gave the rawhide the benefit of any doubt and ordered Alston to administer seventy-five lashes.

The next day nothing noticeable occurred in the lives of these two slaves, except that Alston’s basket fell yet behind:  Mr. Buck acknowledged it was a “hunderd, but a mighty tight squeeze,” while Little Lizay’s had gained three pounds on the last weight.

“Yer saved six lashes ter-day, Little Lizay,” Alston said.  He was evidently glad for her, and her hungry heart was glad that he cared.

“An’ yer didn’t haudly git clear,” she replied, adding to herself that to-morrow she must be more generous with her help to Alston.