A very thoughtful, silent pair joined the hands in the field that morning, for everything seemed to be going wrong. Juno got a “miz’ry in her side” long before noon, and just as the most unsatisfactory day that they had ever spent together was closing, a “cotton-mouth” bit Solon on the heel. Juno ran to kill a chicken to apply to the wound to draw out the poison, for she had more faith in the warm chicken than in Ole Marse’s whiskey, which was plentifully supplied. She did not want to see Solon die with, as she said, “a lie in de mouf”; and, hoping to avert evil, she killed the very rooster that had crowed so inauspiciously early in the morning, thus opening upon her head the vials of Solon’s wrath when he had recovered from his fright. “Ju! you done los’ you’ head-piece sho’, you fool! Hain’t I done gib up all I got ter git dat dominicker, an’ hain’t got but one, an’ here you go an’ split him up fur er snake-bite lack any common chick’n! I lay I larn you, ole ’oman, if I hatter frail you ever’ day ’twix’ now an’ Chris’mus!” “An’ I lay, if you does, I’ll up an’ tell ’em in de meetin’ how you done git dat rooster, Solon!” Then, to the amazement of both, the story of the quarrel got out; the faintest whisper of the midnight was exploited, as it were, upon the house-tops; wagging heads were turned and loosened tongues clattered; and at night Juno quilted in silence, and Solon sought his religious counsellors without comfort. So the days passed, and Juno could see that Solon was perfectly miserable; but he kept his own counsel, and, despite his vehement protestations, the visits over the creek continued. Then Solon fell ill of fever and ague. The overseer said that the trouble was malarial, caused by the weekly trips across the bottom, and refused to grant further passes; but it was to Parson Blalock that Solon poured out the burden of his woes. “I done come ter gib up dat ’ligion. Parson Blalock”; and Solon yawned and shivered in the sunshine, for his chill-time was coming on. “Nebber hab no trouble ner nuffin ail me twel I git hit, an’ here I gwine chillin’ ever’ udder day lack er po’ mizerbul lam’ dat done been drapped too soon. Hit done go too hard wid me, Parson Blalock, an’ I come ter gib hit up!” [Illustration: “‘’CASE DE HOODOO AM ’ER ’OMAN’”] The ’zorter and ’spounder scratched his head thoughtfully, then laid a bar on the anvil—for Parson Blalock was a blacksmith on weekdays. “Ter my min’, Brer Solon, you cain’t gib hit up. Once in de fol’, you b’long ter de fol’; you cain’t git out; an’ er-doin’ lack you is now, is how ever’ fol’ done git er black sheep in hit!” “Hit hain’t struck in deep yit, an’ I hain’t got no use fur dat ’ligion, an’ I want ter let hit go!” moaned Solon.