She thought of the children she saw in the town,--children of the merchant and banker, clean as little dolls, the boys in knickerbocker suits, the girls in dainty white dresses,--and a vengeful bitterness sprang up in her heart. She soon put the dishes away, but felt too tired and listless to do more. "Taw-bay-wies! Pet want ta-aw-bay-wies!" cried the little one, tugging at her dress. Listlessly, mechanically she took him in her arms, and went out into the garden, which was fragrant and sweet with dew and sun. After picking some berries for him, she sat down on the grass under the row of cottonwoods, and sank into a kind of lethargy. A kingbird chattered and shrieked overhead, the grasshoppers buzzed in the grasses, strange insects with ventriloquistic voices sang all about her--she could not tell where. "Ma, can't I put on my clean dress?" insisted Sadie. "I don't care," said the brooding woman, darkly. "Leave me alone." Oh, if she could only lie here forever, escaping all pain and weariness! The wind sang in her ears; the great clouds, beautiful as heavenly ships, floated far above in the vast, dazzling deeps of blue sky; the birds rustled and chirped around her; leaping insects buzzed and clattered in the grass and in the vines and bushes. The goodness and glory of God was in the very air, the bitterness and oppression of man in every line of her face. But her quiet was broken by Sadie, who came leaping like a fawn down through the grass. "O ma, Aunt Maria and Uncle William are coming. They've jest turned in." "I don't care if they be!" she answered in the same dully-irritated way. "What're they comin' here to-day for, I wan' to know." She stayed there immovably, till Mrs. Councill came down to see her, piloted by two or three of the children. Mrs. Councill, a jolly, large-framed woman, smiled brightly, and greeted her in a loud, jovial voice. She made the mistake of taking the whole matter lightly; her tone amounted to ridicule. "Sim says you've been having a tantrum, Creeshy. Don't know what for, he says." "He don't," said the wife, with a sullen flash in her eyes. "_He_ don't know why! Well, then, you just tell him what I say. I've lived in hell long enough. I'm done. I've slaved here day in and day out f'r twelve years without pay--not even a decent word. I've worked like no nigger ever worked 'r could work and live. I've given him all I had, 'r ever expect to have. I'm wore out. My strength is gone, my patience is gone. I'm done with it--that's a _part_ of what's the matter." "My sakes, Lucreeshy! You mustn't talk that way." "But I _will_," said the woman, as she supported herself on one palm and raised the other. "I've _got_ to talk that way." She was ripe for an explosion like this. She seized upon it with eagerness. "They ain't no use o' livin' this way, anyway. I'd take poison if it wa'n't f'r the young ones." "Lucreeshy Burns!" "Oh, I mean it." "Land sakes alive, I b'lieve you're goin' crazy!"