"La! Miss Frances, you don't want none. Dyar's a watermilyun dat's been down in de bottom o' de spring eber since Augus'! It's red as a rose an' I'se gwine sell it fur five cents a slice; 'twill fairly fly at dat. An' dyar's some 'simmon beer--" "Roxie," said Frances, her eyes shining with amusement, "you know I want some persimmon beer." "Miss Frances," replied the old darkey, impressively, "I'se gwine sabe yuh some and bring it up to yo' house, if yuh'll jes' buy me some 'baccer. Dyar's dead loads of it hyar to-day; yuh know whar dey sells it, right on de street below dis; 'taint no such crowd dyar as dyar is hyar. Ole Ike, he driv right befo' me terday, an' he had de prettiest lot, an' I tried ter swop him fur some all de way in. 'Lowed he didn't love watermilyun, de ole liar, and he nebber drank 'simmon beer--'cause he's honin' fur sumpin' stronger--an' de smell o' dat 'baccer blowin' back to me de whole way 'long! Go 'long, chile, de way is open clear to de end o' de square. Ole Ike, he's right 'round de corner dyar." Frances, tingling with fun, rode on slowly. Around the corner, as Roxie said, the way cleared and around the corner from that was a scene at which Frances drew rein. Running the length of the square, wagons of all sorts were drawn close to the curb. They were stored with brown tobacco leaves, well-cut, well-dried, and now to be sold. Men were going from wagon to wagon, pricing, sorting; the buying had hardly begun. One old negro, shabbily clad, hobbled by, his face shining with happiness, his arm rounded over a big sheaf which meant comfort and cheer on many a winter's morning and night by his cabin hearth. On the square beyond were horses and cows for sale before the cattle sheds. But Frances' eyes were diligently searching the square below for old Ike. He was not there. Ike, venturing on a little original business, had driven first to one or two houses of "de quality," where he hoped to make some sales. The venture had prospered. He came driving back gleefully, his best wares sold, the money in the pocket of his patched vest. The morning air was chill to his old bones and he had wrapped himself up well in his wife's best quilt when he climbed into his shaky "jersey" before his cabin door back on the mountain side; but the sunshine and his success had warmed him. He had loosened the wrappings of the quilt about his limbs, though it still flopped about his shoulders, pinned with his wife's bonnet-pin under his lean and bristly chin.