“Well well—arter while,” said Mammy. “Wait twel de chillen git ter bed, fur de tale er what ’Liza do, hain’t fitten fur de years er chillen, es powerful knowin’ es dey is,” and Mammy sighed again, then worked in silence, wrapped in deepest contemplation. So the quilters told their own tales, merry and bright at first, but as the evening wore away they were ghostly and more mysterious, until the last row of shells in the frame were being rolled—then the quilt was taken out, and cider and gingerbread was set upon the table. Fresh wood was piled upon the smouldering back log, as the quilters drew up to the fire with laden hands, and Mammy, waking from her reverie, laid aside her cards and smoothed her apron down, preparatory. There was always a great deal of ceremony about Mammy’s preparations, for her art was not hackneyed by frequent repetition, and this was the story she told to the quilters: Bithie was the only child of Marse Dick’s ’Riah, and Bithie’s ’Liza, a seventh daughter, was born with a veil, besides coming at a time when Bithie had long ceased to look for any more children; so when they brought her to Unc’ Caspar, who was a hoodoo and was given to prophesying, Unc’ Caspar took her in his arms and looked long and earnestly into her face. Now most babies, even from the day of their birth, would have been awed by the eye of Unc’ Caspar, for children can see the truth easier than grown people; but as young as ’Liza was, she caught his long white beard in her fists and crowed. Then Unc’ Caspar laid her down and shook his head ominously at such early disrespect. Some were bold enough to assert that he put a curse upon ’Liza, then and there; but certain it is that Bithie took a chill while he spoke, for, instead of giving the baby his blessing, Unc’ Caspar was fretting over the tweaking of his beard. “Dis chile,” he said, pointing with his long finger at the new moon shining through the clearing, “am born fur powerful good er powerful ebil—but I seed _dis_ fru de trees, an’ I’se feared uv her—I’se feared!” Bithie was Ole Miss’s seamstress, and the seventh daughter was made much of at the “Big House,” but Bithie was troubled about Unc’ Caspar’s curse upon her child, and at night she lay awake thinking about it—though ’Liza throve and grew strong, in spite of Bithie’s misgivings and Unc’ Caspar’s curse, and was as likely a little pickaninny as Ole Marse ever owned, and as Ole Miss told Bithie, when she had sobbed out her tale of woe. “But she got the beatenest temper, Ole Miss,” moaned Bithie, “an’ I cain’t git de upper han’ uv her, whup her hard’s ebber I kin, twel I’se plum wore out. Nebber seed sech er muel uv er nigger, an’, little es she am, she see t’ings dat I hain’t see, in de light an’ in de dark, an’ she hollers out an’ talk ter ’em, an’ hit mek my blood fa’r rin cole—hit do, Ole Miss!” “Hush! that’s all stuff and nonsense, Bithie!” said Ole Miss; “but never mind the temper, it will all come right by-and-by.”