“Dat young feller, he’s done heered dat Marse George’s gut las’ year’s cotton in de shed, dat ain’t never been sold, an’ he’s des ’bout comin’ to spend de day.” “What about our new preacher, Matt, do you like his looks?” asked the lady of the house, as she knitted. “I ain’t seed ’im right good, but I don’t lak de lef’ eye.” “What’s the matter with it?” “Yo’ maw, Miss Nancy, an’ she wuz er pow’ful smart ’oman too, used to say: ‘Matt, don’t you marry no cock-eye man, ef you do you’ll git cheated.’” “And you believe it?” “’Cose I do. Look at Marse George, one uv de bestes’ horse traders in dese parts! Whut do he say? ‘Don’t buy no white foot horse or trade wid er cock-eye man.’ “But, Miss Jule, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ergin yo’ preacher. I don’t lak to think bad ’bout de men uv de pulpit, but I ain’t gut de faith dat I used to have. No, chile, de older I gits de wuss I is.” Matt moved on, leaving her mistress to think over what she had said. Mrs. George Parks, although corpulent, and misshapen, had pretty white hands, neat and dainty feet and small, aristocratic ankles, pretty soft, iron-gray hair, and bright, keen gray eyes. Her every feature bespoke a warm heart, a gentle and refined nature. As she sat there that morning, in her own low rocking chair, knitting away at a cotton sock, she was a perfect picture of health and happiness. She had put her house in shape for the day, fed the early biddies just from the eggshells, looked over her garden and was resting on the long, cool front porch, overspread by the limbs of two magnificent white oaks. After Matt had drawn the water and returned to the kitchen, Charlie, the baby boy of the Parks home, came running in from the shop with a hoe in his hand, and dashed up the steps, intending to go through the house to the field in the rear, but was halted by his mother, who said sharply: “Child, don’t bring that hoe in here, it is bad luck to carry a hoe in a house where one lives.” The boy hurried back down the steps and around the house. The reader may imagine that he is at this prosperous country home, in the Piedmont region of the South, where cotton is king, and hog and hominy the staff of life, and view the scene. It is springtime, a beautiful fair morning in early June, and the grandfather clock, one that had been in the family for several generations, had just struck nine. Mrs. Parks was at peace with the world. She had helped to red up the house, to feed the poultry, strain the fresh milk, churn and put away the butter and written a letter to her oldest son, who was off at college. Old Matt, who served as cook, chambermaid, milkmaid, dairymaid, and errand runner, was preparing dinner. “Have you put on your greens, Matt?” asked Mrs. Parks, throwing back her head, and calling over her shoulder. “Yes’m, long ’go,” responded the faithful Matt. “What do you think about killing a chicken? Do you reckon we’ll have company?”