There was a strain of Indian blood somewhere in Sallie Tom, it was thought, and the rest of the negroes were far more afraid than fond of her. They declared she “cungered” them, and some would have nothing to do with her; and for that reason, though the best worker on the place, she had been put in the house by her mistress. At the birth of the baby she had been installed as nurse-in-chief, and from that hour she ruled as despot of the nursery kingdom. In more ways than one did she assert her Indian peculiarities. No one knew for certain that she possessed a drop of such blood; but her hate once aroused was implacable, and her devotion once given was as intense as it was enduring and genuine. After the birth of the baby Sallie Tom moved up into the house altogether, but she was still allowed to retain her cabin, and there Peter Black slept at night, and there in her hours of recreation or investigation she went to look after her private matters and to see that all things continued in their usual spotless condition. On the afternoon of the day that made Peter Black henceforth the property of the few-hours-old heir, Sallie Tom interviewed her offspring as to the responsibilities and obligations now resting upon him as a body servant; and if at the end of the interview Peter Black failed to understand what he was to be and to do, it was because he was only six years old, and not yet equal to taking life altogether seriously. One thing, however, he fully appreciated, and that was the old horse-hair whip that hung near the chimney corner. Sallie Tom took it down and shook it out in the air. “You see dis?” she said, as she arose from her seat to go back to the house. “You see dis heah, Peter Black? Mars’ Robert told you to-day dat you b’long to de little marsa, now, and so you does. Yo’ foots is to run for him, yo’ han’s is to work for him, yo’ tongue is to talk up for him, yo’ eyes is to look out for him; but you b’long to me, too, Peter Black, and when yo’ foots don’t run, and yo’ hands don’t work, and yo’ eyes don’t see, and you gets to any foolin’, den me and dis heah frien’ of yourn will hav’ suppin to say to you, Peter Black, and now go long wid you,” and Sallie Tom turned and threw her arms around him and hugged him passionately, and then sent him out to play. From the day of his induction into office Peter Black never gave cause for any regret as to his selection. His idolatry of his little master was almost pathetically absurd. It was he who called him Mars’ Bobbie, the day he crowed so lustily in his face, and the name seemed to fit so well the rollicking, laughing, happy little soul that it just stayed, and no one wanted it changed. When he first began to crawl it was over Peter Black’s back, and Peter’s was the only hand he would touch when he tried to make his first steps, and almost before he could call his mother he would cry for “B’ Bac,” and “B’ Bac” was always there.