“You an’ Maw been sayin’,” Selina Jo continued, “that I’m tryin’ to be better ’n my raisin.’ But I ain’t forgot how them Briggs settlement folks looked at us slanchwise. ’Tweren’t ’cause we was p’izen pore, neither. They knowed, somehow, we was plumb low-down an’ ornery. That’s why they didn’t none of ’em ast us to a Sunday dinner. They seed we was trash. Course I’m honin’ to be better ’n that kind o’ raisin’--an’ I’m goin’ to, too!” Shug had retreated to the doorway, where he stood watching this new daughter of his with furtive, fearful eyes. The meanest of petty tyrants, when he held the whip hand, doubtless he expected that Selina Jo would exhibit the same trait. There was nothing of the bully in the girl, though. Threatened with what she considered to be undeserved punishment, she had simply acted upon the dictates of her immature mind and had seized upon the only means at hand to escape it. It was several moments before Shug mustered courage to speak. “Sence you air goin’ to do public work,” he whined presently, “’tain’t nothin’ but right you ort to pay fer yore bed an’ board.” Selina Jo was glad to agree to this arrangement. When informed of it later, Marthy sullenly acquiesced. She would have to do the housework now, which was no more to her liking than the realization that Shug would permanently pocket the money for their daughter’s board. It was the next day that Selina Jo sought out Lige Tuttle, woods foreman for Pruitt Brothers. “I’m lookin’ fer a job,” she announced bluntly. “Sorry,” Tuttle answered brusquely, “but all our cooks are niggers.” “Cook?” was the scornful answer. “I ain’t astin’ to be no cook. I want shore ’nough work.” Tuttle smiled patronizingly. “What can you do?’ “Scrapin’, dippin’, er hackin’,” was the confident answer. “You?” Tuttle laughed softly. “Why, that’s a man’s work. It’s hard.” “Any harder ’n breakin’ bull yearlin’s to the yoke? Er splittin’ rails an’ breakin’ new ground?” “Mean to say you’ve done all that?” “I most bardaceously have!” Labour was scarce at the time. Tuttle considered the girl’s request carefully, asked a few more questions, and decided to take a chance. “What’s your name?” he asked. “S’liny Jo.” “What else?” It was the first time Selina Jo had ever been asked her surname; she felt the blood rush to her face. “What’s your last name?” Tuttle repeated. The answer came almost inaudibly: “Hudsill.” “Shug Hudsill’s young ’un?” “How kin I he’p it?” the girl burst out passionately. “If you’d a been borned a Hudsill, you’d hatter be one, too!” “Don’t get mad, child.” There was something in the spirit of this strange creature that Tuttle could not understand; but he respected it. “I wasn’t aimin’ to low-rate you none just because of your daddy. Come here to-morrow mornin’, an’ I’ll try you out.”