"In course dey don't. Why should dey?" put in Nace. "Ain't dey our Massers, and habn't dey dar own way in ebery ting?" "I wisht I'd bin born white," added Dan. "Ya, ya, dat is funny!" "Do de free colored folks live like de whites?" asked Sally. "Why, laws, yes; once when I went with Masser to L.," Nace began, "at de tavern whar we put up, dar was a free collored man what waited on de table, and anoder one what kipt barber-shop in de tavern. Wal, dey was drest as nice as white men. Dar dey had dar standin' collar, and nice cravat, and dar broadcloth, and dar white handkersher; and de barber, he had some wool growin' on his upper lip jist like de quality men. Ya, ya, but I sed dis am funny; so when I 'gin to talk jist as dough dey was niggers same as I is, dey straighten 'emselves up and tell me dat I was a speakin' to a gemman. Wal, says I, haint your faces black as mine? Niggers aint gemmen, says I, for I thought I'd take dar airs down; but den, dey spunk up and say dey was not niggers, but colored pussons, and dey call one anoder Mr. Wal, I t'ought it was quare enoff; and more an' dat, white folks speak 'spectable to 'em, jist same as dey war white. Whole lot ob white gemmans come in de barber-shop to be shaved; and den dey'd pay de barber, and maybe like as not, set down and talk 'long wid him." There is no telling how long the garrulous Nace would have continued the narration of what he saw in L--, had he not been suddenly interrupted by the entrance of Miss Tildy, inquiring for Amy. Instantly all of them assumed that cheerful, smiling, sycophantic manner, which is well known to all who have ever looked in at the kitchen of a slaveholder. Amy stood out from the group to answer Miss Tildy's summons. I shall never forget the expression of subdued misery that was limned upon her face. "Come in the house and account for the loss of those forks," said Miss Tildy, in the most peremptory manner. Amy made no reply to this; but followed the lady into the house. There she was court-marshalled, and of course, found guilty of a high misdemeanor. "Wal," said Mr. Peterkin, "we'll see if the 'post' can't draw from you whar you've put 'em. Come with me." With a face the picture of despair, she followed. Upon reaching the post, she was fastened to it by the wrist and ankle fetters; and Mr. Peterkin, foaming with rage, dipped his cowhide in the strongest brine that could be made, and drawing it up with a flourish, let it descend upon her uncovered back with a lacerating stroke. Heavens! what a shriek she gave! Another blow, another and a deeper stripe, and cry after cry came from the hapless victim! "Whar is the forks?" thundered Mr. Peterkin, "tell me, or I'll have the worth out of yer cussed hide." "Indeed, indeed, Masser, I doesn't know." "You are a liar," and another and a severer blow. "Whar is they?" "I give 'em to Miss Jane, Masser, indeed I did."