"No," Lizay answered: "he made yer do it. Yer couldn't he'p it. I reckon yer'll have ter whip me agin ter-morrer night. I mos' knows my baskit won't weigh no two hunderd an' fawty-seven poun's. 'Tain't fa'r ter 'spec' that much from me: it's a heap more'n tother gals gits, an' mos' all uv um is heap bigger'n me. I's small pertatoes." She laughed a little at her jest. "Yer's some punkins," said Alston, returning the joke. "I'd give a heap ef I could pick cotton like yer." "Yer's improved a heap," said Little Lizay. "Ef yer keeps on improvin', mayby yer'll git so yer kin he'p me arter 'while." "Mayby so," Alston answered. "But yer wouldn't he'p me, I reckon. Reckon yer'd he'p Edny Ann: yer likes her better'n me." "No, I don't." "Reckon yer likes somebody in Virginny more'n yer likes anybody on this plantation." "I's better 'quainted back thar'," said Alston apologetically. "But thar' ain't no use hankerin' arter them yer's lef 'hin' yer: reckon yer won't never see um no mo'. Heap better git sati'fied yere. It's a long way back thar', ain't it?" "A mighty long way," said Alston; and then he was silent, his thoughts going back and back over the long way. Lizay recalled him: "Was yer sorry yer had ter whip me?" "I was mighty sorry, Little Lizay," he replied with a strong tone of tenderness that made her heart beat faster. "I would er knocked that white nigger down, but it wouldn't er he'ped nothin'. Things would er jus' been wusser." "Yes," Lizay assented, "nothin' won't he'p us: ain't no use in nothin'." "Reckon I'll go in an' go ter sleep," said Alston: "got ter git up early in the mawnin'." He _was_ up early the next morning, he and Little Lizay being again in the cotton-field before dawn. All through the day there was, as before, persistent devotion to the picking; then the holding on after dusk for one more pound; the same result at night--the man up to the required figure, the woman behind, this time forty-one pounds behind. Again she received a cowhiding at Alston's hands. "What yer mean by this yere foolin'?" Mr. Buck demanded in a rage of Little Lizay. "Yer reckon I's gwine ter stan' this yere? Two hunderd an' fawty-seven 'gin two hunderd an' six! It's all laziness an' mulishness. I'll git yer outen that thar' notch, else I'll kill yer. Look yere: ter-morrer, ef yer don't come ter taw, I'll give yer twict es many licks es the poun's yer falls behin'." Did this threat frighten Little Lizay out of her devotion? "Two hunderd is 'nuff fer a little gal like yer," Alston said the next morning. "Save my life, I can't pick no more'n a hunderd an' a few poun's mo'. I wouldn't stan' ter be flogged ef I'd done my shar'." "Got ter stan' it--can't he'p myse'f." "I'd go ter town an' tell Mos' Hawton. I's tolerbul sho' he wouldn't 'low yer ter git twict es many licks, nohow. Mos' Hawton's tolerbul good ter his black folks, ain't he?"