“I don’t feel hardly able to eat,” she said in a weak voice. “It seems to me I don’t ever want to open my eyes again.” “You are overworking yourself,” said Olive, “you should not attempt this field work: it is beyond your strength.” “What! and let her see me give in?” said Mary Winkle with reviving spirit. Madame came up at this moment looking as fresh as a lily: she glanced sharply at Sister Mary. “You appear very much exhausted,” she remarked. Sister Mary raised her head and opened her eyes, but did not speak. “It’s a pity you don’t take wine,” she continued, sitting down and beginning on her piece of chicken with relish. “A good glass of Burgundy would set you up in no time.” Sister Mary herself sat up at this. “I wouldn’t touch wine, no, not if I was dying,” she said resolutely. Madame smiled. “I didn’t recommend it because you were dying: wine as everything else is then useless: but because you look weak. I suggested a medicine.” “As a medicine it is worse than useless, and as a drink I scorn to take a rank poison.” “Poisons are sometimes given as medicine, witness strychnine in small doses for certain forms of dyspepsia, and I believe satisfactorily,” said Madame. “Wine is worse than strychnine, because more insidious in its action and more liable to abuse,” said Mary Winkle decisively, as she took the tin cup of milk and water handed her by Olive, and drank it with eagerness. “Well, at all events admit that wine has been of benefit to you on this occasion,” observed Madame smiling. “I merely mentioned it to you, and you look already revived and more like yourself. Doesn’t she, Sister Olive?” “It was the milk and water did it,” said Sister Mary Winkle hurriedly, at which Madame smiled again. Brother Dummy and Napoleon Pompey now came up to the group of women. They had been watering and unharnessing the horses who were at the present moment munching their corn. The white man, although dirty as a ploughman would be after half a day’s hard work, sat down promptly beside Mary Winkle and helped himself to a leg of chicken: the negro boy stood aside doubtfully, eyeing the group and the food with longing looks. “Come along, N. P.,” said Olive brightly, “sit down there.” She pointed to a place on the other side of Mary Winkle, where there seemed a good opening in front of a huge piece of corn-bread. “No, if you please,” said Sister Mary, rising to her feet with resentment. “Why, what’s the matter?” asked Olive flushing with surprise. “Napoleon Pompey won’t bite you.” “I have never sat down to eat beside a negro, and I don’t feel inclined to begin now.” “Let the lad sit beside me,” said Madame gently. “I have seen people of too many shades of colour and no colour to mind a little extra dash of black. Come here, boy, come and have this piece of bread and meat.”