“I des know what white folks seh, dat’s all,” insinuated Montague, sullenly. “Marse Herbert come over ter see my marster ter-day, en I heerd um talkin’ in de stable-yard. Marse Herbert ’low he’d been countin’ on payin’ off his pressin’ debt wid whut dis fambly er niggers would fetch, en’d laid his plans ter hol’ on ter his house en go Wes’ en mek money ter pay de in_trust_ en lif’ de mortgage, but des den Une’ Rastus, de mos’ valuables’ one, tuk sick, en now Aunt Milly an’ de chillun won’t fetch ernough ter do much good.” This announcement produced an impression. Aunt Milly was plainly too much astonished even to protest against the brutality of the revelation. Rastus took a fresh hold on his thin knees with his arms, coughed deeply and painfully, and looked Montague straight in the eyes. “Is you tellin’ de trufe?” he asked, “_Is_ you?” “I hain’t no reason to tell you er lie, Unc’ Rastus.” From that moment Montague had the contempt of the whole room. Aunt Milly was evidently recompensed by this, for she simply looked into the sympathetic faces around her and made no sound. Rastus lay back on his quilt silently, and languidly thrust his feet back to the fire. Aunt Milly’s voice sounded cold and equivocal in her effort to smother her emotions when she said, “Well, come on, y’all, an’ git yo’ ‘possum an’ biscuit ‘fo’ dey git co’.” The last words of her invitation were drowned in the scrambling and shuffling of feet as the crowd surged toward the table. A whole opossum embedded in a great heap of fried sweet potatoes was placed by Len and Cæsar on each end of the long table, and Aunt Milly followed them with a great bucket of coffee and pans of smoking biscuits. They were all seated and had begun the feast, when, to their astonishment, Rastus rose and staggered to a vacant place at the end of the table. “Whar my ‘possum, Aunt Milly?” he demanded, with pretended pique. “On my soul, I b’lieve you tryin’ ter lef’ me out.” “Go back ter yo’ bed, Rastus,” she scolded, gently. “What kin got in you? you ain’t eat nothin’ in er mont’ ‘cep’ er li’l soup en gravy, en now you want ter founder yo’se’f on ’possum meat.” He shoved his plate impatiently toward her. “Gimme some er dem taters en dat ‘possum. You heer me?” “You too sick, Rastus,” protested Aunt Milly, with maternal persuasiveness. “Go lie down, en I ’ll fix you some er yo’ good soup.”