“Dar’s nearer er dozen,” rejoined Betsey with offended pride, “dar’s nearer er dozen ‘cordin’ ter de way I count.”

“Dar now!” cried Aunt Verbeny.  “I ain’ never trus’ no nigger’s cac’lations yit, en I ain’ gwine ter now.  When I wants countin’, I want white folks’ countin’.”

“Dey tell me,” said Delphy, glancing sternly at the head on Betsey’s knee, “dat de quality don’ set demse’ves up on er pa’sel er chillun no mo’.  De time done gone by.  My Mahaly, she went up ter some outlandish place wid er wild Injun name, like Philadelphy, en she sez de smaller de fambly de mo’ stuck up is de heads er it.  She sez ef Ole Miss had gone up dar a-puttin’ on airs ’case er her fifteen chillun, she wouldn’t never have helt up ‘er head no mo’.  Mahaly, she ain’ mah’ed no man, she ain’t.  She sez en ole maid in Philadelphy des’ looks right spang over all de heads, she’s so sot up.”

“‘Tain’ so yer,” said Aunt Verbeny feelingly. “‘Tain’ so yer.  Hit seems like de ‘oman nairy a man is laid claim ter ain’ wuth claimin’.  Ain’ dat so, bro’ Ish?”

But Uncle Ish only grunted in retort, his head nodding drowsily.  The tremulous tracery the wood-fire cast upon his face gave it an expression of dumb intensity which adumbrated all the pathos and the patience of his race.

“Mahaly wuz er likely gal,” went on Aunt Verbeny, “an’ when she las’ come home, she wuz a-warin’ spike-heeled shoes en er veil uv skeeter nettin’.  ‘Tain’ so long sence Rhody’s Viney went to Philadelphy, too, but she ain’ had no luck sence she wuz born er twin.  Hit went clean agin ’er.”

“Lord a-mercy, Aunt Verbeny, she ain’t a-comin’ back dis way?” asked Betsey, probing the apples with a small pine stick and giving the softest to Eugenia.

Aunt Verbeny shook her head.

“She ain’ never had no luck on er ‘count er bein’ er twin,” she said.  “When she sot herse’f on a-gwine up ter de Yankees, Marse Tom, he tuck er goose quill en wrote out ‘er principles [recommendations] des’ es plain es writin’ kin be writ—­which ain’t plain enough fer my eyes—­en he gun’ ’em ter Viney wid his own han’s.  Viney tuck ’n put ’em safe ’way down in de bottom uv ’er trunk en went ’long ter de Yankees.  But she ain’ been dar mo’n er week when one night she went a-traipsin’ out on de street en lef er principles behint ‘er, en, bless yo’ life, oner dem ar Yankees breck right in en stole ’em smack ’way f’om ‘er.  Yo’ trunk is a moughty risky place ter kyar yo’ principles, but Viney, she wuz dat sot up.”

A nod of assent passed round the group.  The children ate their apples silently, and Moses got up to put fresh wood on the fire.  As the green log fell among the smouldering chips vivid tongues of flame shot up the smoked old mortar of the chimney, and the remaining apples burst their brown peels and sent out little rivulets of juice.  The crackling of the fresh bark made a cheerful accompaniment to the chirping of a cricket hidden somewhere in the hearthstones.