“Dat’s so,” admitted Moses meekly.

“Where’s Betsey?” inquired Eugenia, twirling her sunbonnet.  “Aunt Verbeny told me the baby died.  I am so sorry.”

“De Lawd He give, en’ de Lawd He teck,” returned Delphy piously, “en’ He done been moughty open-handed dis long time.  He done give er plum sight mo’n He done teck, en’ it ain’ no use’n sayin’ He ain’.”

“So the others are well?” ventured Eugenia, and as a bow-legged crawler emerged from beneath the doorstep she added:  “Is that the youngest?”

Delphy snorted.

“Dat ar brat, Miss Euginney?  He ain’ Betsey’s, nohow.  He’s Rindy’s Lije, en’ he’s de mos’ out’n out pesterer sence Mose wuz born.”

“Rindy!” exclaimed Eugenia in surprise, lightly touching the small black body with her foot.  “Why, I didn’t know Rindy was married.  She’s working at the house now.”

Delphy seized the child and held him at arm’s length while she applied a sounding box.  “Go ‘way f’om yer, honey,” she said.  “Rindy ain’ mah’ed.  He’s des’ an accident.  Shet yo’ mouth, you imp er darkness, fo’ I shet hit fur you.”

“Don’t hurt him, Delphy,” pleaded the girl.  “Rindy ought to be ashamed of herself, but it isn’t his fault.  I’m going to send him some clothes.  He looks fat enough, anyhow.”

“He’s fitten ter bus’,” retorted Delphy sternly.

“He don’t do nuttin’ fur his livin’ but eat all day, en’ den when night come he don’t do nuttin’ but holler kaze de time ter leave off eatin’ done come.  He ain’ no mo’ use’n a weazel.”

Eugenia promised to befriend the baby, and left with Delphy’s pessimism ringing in her ears.  “He ain’ wuth yo’ shoestring, he ain’,” called the woman after her.

The girl was as popular among the negroes as she had been as a small tomboy in pinafores.  Her impulsive generosity and, above all, her cordial kindness, had not abated with years.  She was as ready to serve as be served, her heart was as open as her hand; and the shrewd, childish race received her as a benignant providence.  Her sweetness of disposition became a proverb.  “As sunshiny ez Miss Euginny,” said Aunt Verbeny of a clear day—­and the general raised her wages.

During the early summer Bernard came home on a vacation.  For several years he had held a position in a bank in Lynchburg, and his visits to Kingsborough took place at uncertain intervals.  He was a slight, insignificant young fellow, with complacent eyes and a beautiful, girlish mouth.  His temper was quicker than Eugenia’s, and he was in continual friction with the general, who had grown absent-minded and irritable.  He not only forgot his own opinions as soon as he expressed them, but, what is still more annoying, he was apt to offer them as some one’s else in the course of a few hours.

“That young Burr’s a scamp,” he remarked one morning at breakfast, “a regular scamp.  Here he’s setting up as a lawyer under George Bassett’s eye, when I happen to know that Jerry Pollard wouldn’t have him in his store if you paid him.”