wished, if possible, to go on helping Alston.  She doubted, too, if he would receive it well that she had been helping him.  Might he not gravely resent it that through her action such a pitiable part in the drama had been forced on him?  Then there was something sweet to Little Lizay in suffering all alone for Alston—­in having this secret unshared:  she respected herself more that she did not risk everything to vindicate herself, for this she could do:  the steelyard to-morrow would demonstrate the truth of her story.

But the morrow came, and she went out to the field, her story untold, a marked woman.  Yet she was not comfortless.  The something that Alston had told her the previous day was making her heart sing.  This is what he told her:  “While yer wus stealin’ from me, Lizay, I wus he’pin’ yer.  I put a ha’f er sack in yer baskit ter-day, an’ a ha’f er sack yistiddy—­kase I liked yer, Lizay.”

She took her rows beside Alston’s as usual, determined to watch for a chance to help him.  But when he moved away from her and took another row, Lizay knew that the time had come.  She couldn’t stand it to have him strain and tug and bend to his work as no other hand in the field did, only to be disappointed at night.  She could never bear it that he should be flogged after all she had done to save him from the shame.  She could never live through it—­the cowhiding of her hero by the detested overseer.  Yes, the time had come:  she must tell Alston.

She went over to where he had begun a new row.  “Yer don’t b’lieve the tale I tole yistiddy, Als’on:  yer’s feared I’ll steal yer cotton ter-day,” she said.

“I don’t wish no talk ’bout it, Lizay,” Alston said.  His tone was half sad, half peremptory.

“Yer mustn’t feel haud agin me ef I tells you somethin’, Als’on.  Yer’s been puttin’ cotton in my baskit unbeknownst ter save me some lashes, an’ yer throw’d it up ter me yistiddy.  Now, look yere, Als’on:  I’s been he’pin’ yer all this week, ever since Mr. Buck said yer got ter git a hunderd.  Ev’ry day I’s he’ped yer git up ter a hunderd.”

Alston had stopped picking, both his hands full of cotton, and stood staring in a bewildered way at the girl.  “Lizay, is this a fac’?” he said at length.

“‘Tis so, Als’on; an’ ef yer don’t lemme he’p yer now yer’ll fall ‘hin’ an’ have ter git flogged.”

“An’ ef yer he’p me, yer’ll fall shawt an’ have ter git flogged.  Oh, Lizay, thar’ never was nobody afo’ would er done this yer fer me,” Alston said, feeling that he would like to kiss the poor shoulders that had been scourged for him.  Great tears gathered in his eyes, and he thought without speaking the thought, “My wife in Virginny wouldn’t er done it.”

“So yer mus’ lemme he’p yer ter-day,” said Little Lizay.

“I’ll die fus’,” he said in a savage tone.

“Oh, yer’ll git a whippin’, Als’on, sho’s yer bawn.”

“No:  I won’t take a floggin’ from that brute.”