“I know I _wuz_ sick,” he replied; “but I want ter tell y’all, I ain’t now; I’m cuored well en soun’.” As he spoke these words, accompanied by a heroic attempt to hold himself erect in his chair, Aunt Milly recalled the strange look of desperate determination that had possessed his face when Montague had finished speaking, and she kept silent. Both sides of the long table were curiously looking at the invalid. “I’m er li’l weak yit, but I ain’t sick,” he went on, bracing himself with a thin hand on each side of the table. “You know dat conjure doctor on de river plantation? Well, he come by here dis mawnin’ ‘fo’ day, he did--des ez I wuz gittin’ up ter git er armful er firewood, en--” “Why, you know dat ain’t so, Unc’ Ras-tus,” broke in Aunt Milly, “kase I got up fus’ dis mawnin’, en you wuz soun’ ersleep.” “‘Twuz long ‘fo’ you got up, Aunt Milly,” added the old man, glibly, as he warmed up to his fiction. “Well, dat conjure doctor rode by de do’ on er white hoss, he did, en seh to me, ‘Rastus, you sick, en you mus’ git well ‘fo’ yo’ marster puts you up for sale, so you kin bring what you is wuff ter he’p him out ’n his scrape.’ En he up en ax me has I my rabbit-foot erbout me, en I tuk it out ’n my weskit pocket, en he seh, ‘Well, put it in de hot ashes in de back er de chimbly tell you hear er dog bark, en den tek it out en wash it clean in spring-water, en den keep it by you night en day,’ en when I done ez he tol’ me I got well.” A chorus of wondering ejaculations rose from the superstitious listeners, and for a moment opossum meat and potatoes were forgotten. Aunt Milly looked at her husband tenderly. “Dat nigger would die fer Marse Herbert,” she thought. “He dat sick now he cayn’t hol’ his haid up; de sight er dat ’possum meat is gaggin’ ‘im, but he ’ll kill me ef I let on.” “I don’t want yo’ ol’ ’possum meat,” said Rastus, rising and moving back to the fire. “I’m gwine ter lie down an’ git rested up fer ter-morrer. Ef dey ’ll let me, I ’ll dance er breakdown on dat auction-block en turn one er my han’-springs.” “He certny is cuored,” said Aunt Winnie, gladly. “Dese conjure doctors beat de ol’ sort all ter pieces.” The supper over, Aunt Milly slowly counted out her earnings and put them away; the table was moved back against the wall; Nelse got out his bones and began to play, and Len and Cæsar danced jigs till they sank to the floor in exhaustion. After this, plantation songs were sung, ghost-stories were told, and it was late when they went back to their homes. The following day was a fine one. The air was bracing, and the sun shone brightly. The autumnal foliage had never appeared more beautiful; every color in nature seemed lavished on the hills near by, and the mountains, twenty miles away, blue as the skies in spring and summer, had faded into a beautiful pink.