Black Cuddymonk and his wife Rosann were holding an animated discussion as they sat before the fire in their cheerful kitchen in old Narragansett. That is, Cuddymonk was talking loudly and effusively, while Rosann said little, but said it firmly; and in the end succeeded in having her own way, as such stubborn, talk-less persons usually do, whether they be black or white. Cuddy had had an offer of employment for a month, and he was unwilling to accept the position and do the work; but Rosann calmly overruled him and he had to yield. It was not that the work was hard, or that the pay was poor, but simply that Cuddy was afraid, he was too superstitious to dare to face the terrors that the performance of his duties might bring forth. And yet it seemed simple enough! Old Dr. Greene had the rheumatism and could not hold the reins to drive, and he wanted to hire Cuddy to drive in his chaise with him when he went on his daily round of visits, and to care for the horse when he returned home. Cuddy would have loved to feed and rub down the horse, and drive through the sunny lanes and green woods, and sit in the sun while the Doctor visited and dosed and bled within doors. It would be like making a round of visits himself, for he was then “Black Gov’nor,” and at every house in village or on farm he would find some friend or constituent to chat and gossip with. But alas! all the Doctor’s visits were not made in the daytime, and Cuddy shrank from the thought of driving all over Narragansett in the night. He thus complained to Rosann: “I wouldn’t care if it warn’t for dem darminted graveyards. Dere’s a graveyard on ebery farm all ober dis country. I nebber see sech fools es folks is in Narragansett. Dey warnts ter hab ghosts ebberywhere. Why don’t dey keep ’em all in de ole church-yard ober ter Fender Zeke’s corner, den yer can go de road dat leads round de udder way, an’ not meet ’em. Down Boston way dey buries folks in church-yards an’ keeps der ghosts where dey belongs.” Cuddymonk had travelled, and knew how things should be; he had ridden to Boston thirty years previously with Judge Potter; and the strange sights he had seen, and the new ways he had learned at that metropolis, had been his chief stock-in-trade ever since, and, indeed, had formed one of his great qualifications for election as Black Governor. Rosann answered him calmly and coldly: “I’s sick er ghosts, Cuddymonk. I’se been mar’d forty year, and you’s a-talkin’ about ghosts all de whole during time an’ a-speerin’ for ghosts all dem years, an’ yer ain’t nebber seed one yit. You’s jess got ter go ter de Doctor’s termorrer an’ dribe for him.” “Rosann, when yer sees me brung home a ragin’ luniac wid misery ob de head, yer’ll wish yer hadn’ drove yer ole man erway from yer bed ’n’ b’ord ter go foolin’ all ober de country in de night-time, seein’ ghosts and sperits an’ witches. P’raps I sha’n’t nebber come home alibe, anyway.”