got no reg’lar wuk. I feeds de chickens, sometimes, and fin’s hens’ nests an’ min’s chillun, an’ dribes de tukkeys into de tobacco lots to eat de grasshoppers an’ I goes aftah de mail. Dat’s what I’se a doin’ now. Leastways I’se a comin’ back wid de mail wot I done been an’ gone after.” “Is that all?” “Dat’s nuff, ain’t it, Mahstah?” “I don’t know. I wonder what your new master will think when he comes.” “Golly, so do I. Anyhow, he’s a Yankee, an’ he won’t know how much wuk a nigga ought to do. I’ll be his pussonal servant, I reckon. Leastways dat’s what Miss Dorothy say she tink.” “Who is your Miss Dorothy?” the young man asked with badly simulated indifference, for this was a member of the Wyanoke family of whom Dr. Arthur Brent had never before heard. “Miss Dorothy? Why, she’s jes’ Miss Dorothy, so.” “But what’s her other name?” “I dunno. I reckon she ain’t got no other name. Leastways I dunno.” “Is Wyanoke a fine plantation?” “Fine, Mahstah? It’s de very finest dey is. It’s all out o-doors and I reckon dey’s a thousand cullud people on it.” “Oh, hardly that,” answered the young man--“say eight or nine hundred--or perhaps one hundred would be nearer the mark.” “No, _Sir_! De Brents is quality folks, Mahstah. Dey’s got more’n a thousan’ niggas, an’ two or three thousan’ horses, an’ as fer cows an’ hawgs you jes’ cawn’t count ’em! Dey eats dinner offen chaney plates every day an’ de forks at Wyanoke is all gold.” “How many carriages do they keep, Dick?” “Sebenteen, besides de barouche an’ de carryall.” “Well, now you’d better be moving on. Your Miss Polly and your Miss Dorothy may be waiting for their letters.” As the boy rode away, Dr. Arthur Brent resumed his brisk walk. He no longer concerned himself with the landscape, or the woods, or the wild flowers, or the beauty of the June morning, or anything else. He was thinking, and not to much purpose.