“Who tol’ you dat?” exclaimed the man, fiercely. “I ain’t runnin’ aftah nobody else—’tain’t none o’ yo’ business ef I is.” The denial and implied confession all came out in one breath. “Ef hit ain’t my bus’ness, I’d like to know whose it gwine to be. I’s yo’ lawful wife an’ hit’s me dat’s a-sta’vin’ to tek keer of yo’ chile.” “Doggone de chile; I’s tiahed o’ hyeahin’ ’bout huh.” “You done got tiahed mighty quick when you ain’t nevah even seed huh yit. You done got tiahed quick, sho.” “No, an’ I do’ want to see huh, neithah.” “You do’ know nothin’ ’bout de chile, you do’ know whethah you wants to see huh er not.” “Look hyeah, ooman, don’t you fool wid me. I ain’t right, nohow!” Just then, as if conscious of the hubbub she had raised, and anxious to add to it, the baby awoke and began to wail. With quick mother instinct, the black woman went to the shabby bed, and, taking the child in her arms, began to croon softly to it: “Go s’eepy, baby; don’ you be ’f’aid; mammy ain’ gwine let nuffin’ hu’t you, even ef pappy don’ wan’ look at huh li’l face. Bye, bye, go s’eepy, mammy’s li’l gal.” Unconsciously she talked to the baby in a dialect that was even softer than usual. For a moment the child subsided, and the woman turned angrily on her husband: “I don’ keer whethah you evah sees dis chile er not. She’s a blessed li’l angel, dat’s what she is, an’ I’ll wo’k my fingahs off to raise huh, an’ when she grows up, ef any nasty niggah comes erroun’ mekin’ eyes at huh, I’ll tell huh ’bout huh pappy an’ she’ll stay wid me an’ be my comfo’t.” “Keep yo’ comfo’t. Gawd knows I do’ want huh.” “De time’ll come, though, an’ I kin wait fu’ it. Hush-a-bye, Jimsella.” The man turned his head slightly. “What you call huh?” “I calls huh Jimsella, dat’s what I calls huh, ’ca’se she de ve’y spittin’ image of you. I gwine to jes’ lun to huh dat she had a pappy, so she know she’s a hones’ chile an’ kin hol’ up huh haid.” “Oomph!” They were both silent for a while, and then Jim said, “Huh name ought to be Jamsella—don’t you know Jim’s sho’t fu’ James?” “I don’t keer what it’s sho’t fu’.” The woman was holding the baby close to her breast and sobbing now. “It wasn’t no James dat come a-cou’tin’ me down home. It was jes’ plain Jim. Dat’s what de mattah, I reckon you done got to be James.” Jim didn’t answer, and there was another space of silence, only interrupted by two or three contented gurgles from the baby. “I bet two bits she don’t look like me,” he said finally, in a dogged tone that was a little tinged with curiosity. “I know she do. Look at huh yo’se’f.” “I ain’ gwine look at huh.” “Yes, you’s ’fraid—dat’s de reason.” “I ain’ ’fraid nuttin’ de kin’. What I got to be ’fraid fu’? I reckon a man kin look at his own darter. I will look jes’ to spite you.”