Ross was a tall broad young negro, not over-sized, but well-knit and strong, his weight about one hundred and sixty pounds. He maintained a rivalry with Wade Spalding at the business of the picks, neither of them deigning to outdo himself but each taking pride in what he could achieve, foot by foot, by using as little of his strength as he might. Each negro used but the cream of his vitality on the labor, working relaxed, saving himself for life and her uses. A song, called out quickly, Nigga, nigga, what can you do? I can line a track, Pull a jack; I can pick and shovel too. Water for bathing was being piped into all the better houses of the town, but few people would drink water from the pipes. Pump water, water from cisterns and wells, was better liked. The cisterns were not yet to be discarded. Wade had cleaned many a cistern and well. He would go down into the drained reservoir and dip up the sediments of mud to send it aloft in buckets. He would sop up the last of the water with cloths and rinse again with fresh water. No one sang at a lonely task such as this. Song flowed best when the men worked together in a long line, the picks and shovels rising and falling. Look down that dirt-road, Far as I could see. Saw a jail door.... Look like home to me. ONE Frequently a well-used, high buggy was seen on the streets of the town, a vehicle of a slightly unfamiliar type, bought perhaps in some remote market. It would turn slowly around before the county offices and stand all afternoon under the shade of the tree at the doorway, a privileged conveyance. It was drawn by a well-conditioned horse, a tall bay that would step daintily along the stones of the street, and turn the wheels carefully. The owner, Mr. Tom Singleton, would buy easily at the stores, careless of bargains, asking for the best. Sometimes he would talk all afternoon with Anthony Bell, sitting on the gallery of the white house or under the elm tree. If Tom Singleton’s wife, Miss Doe, were present she would give great care to her leave-taking. She would mount to the buggy with ceremonious ease and seat herself, smiling at the accomplished act, scarcely belonging to the event, her smile lingering until the need for good-byes obliterated her inner vision of herself. She was a sister to Anthony Bell. Her name, Theodosia, had been shortened to Doe. The Singleton farm was ten miles from the town, northwest, down the valley. Sometimes Mr. Tom would come to town in a carriage drawn by two fine brown mules. Then he would take Anthony Bell and the two girls, Theodosia and Annie, back to the farm for a visit.