No one of the cabins was over sixteen feet square, but each was 'home' and 'shelter' for three or four human beings. Walking on a short distance, we came to a larger hovel, in front of which about a dozen young chattels were playing. Seven or eight more, too young to walk, were crawling about on the ground inside. They had only one garment apiece--a long shirt of coarse linsey--and their heads and feet were bare. An old negress was seated in the doorway, knitting. Approaching her, I said: 'Aunty, are not these children cold?' 'Oh! no, massa; dey'm use' ter de wedder.' 'Do you take care of all of them?' 'In de daytime I does, massa. In de night dar mudders takes de small 'uns.' 'But some of them are white. Those two are as white as I am!' 'No, massa; dey'm brack. Ef you looks at dar eyes an' dar finger nails, you'll see dat.' 'They're black, to be sure they are,' said young Preston, laughing; 'but they're about as white as Dawsey, and look wonderfully like him--eh, aunty Sue?' 'I reckons, massa Joe!' replied the woman, running her hand through her wool, and grinning widely. 'What does he ask for _them_, aunty?' 'Doan't know, massa, but 'spect dey'm pooty high. Dem kine am hard ter raise.' 'Yes,' said Joe; 'white blood--even Dawsey's--don't take naturally to mud.' 'I reckons not, massa Joe!' said the old negress, with another grin. Joe gave her a half-dollar piece, and, amid an avalanche of blessings, we passed on to Dawsey's 'mansion'--if mansion it could be called--a story-and-a-half shanty, about thirty feet square, covered with rough, unpainted boards, and lit by two small, dingy windows. It was approached by a sandy walk, and the ground around its front entrance was littered with apple peelings, potato parings, and the refuse of the culinary department. Joe rapped at the door, and, in a moment, it opened, and a middle-aged mulatto woman appeared. As soon as she perceived Preston, she grasped his two hands, and exclaimed: 'Oh! massa Robert, _do_ buy har! Massa'll kill har, ef you doan't.' 'But I can't, Dinah. Your master refuses my note, and I haven't the money now.' 'Oh! oh! He'll kill har; he say he will. She woan't gib in ter him, an' he'll kill har, _shore_. Oh! oh!' cried the woman, wringing her hands, and bursting into tears. 'Is it 'Spasia?' asked Joe. 'Yas, massa Joe; it'm 'Spasia. Massa hab sole yaller Tom 'way from har, an' he swar he'll kill har 'case she woan't gib in ter him. Oh! oh!' 'Where is your master?' 'He'm 'way wid har an' Black Cale. I reckon dey'm down ter de branch. I reckon dey'm whippin' on har _now_!' 'Come, Frank,' cried Joe, starting off at a rapid pace; 'let's see that performance.' 'Hold on, Joe; wait for us. You'll get into trouble!' shouted his father, hurrying after him. The rest of us caught up with them in a few moments, and then all walked rapidly on in the direction of the small run which borders the two plantations.