"I don't see how dey can be poah. Dey mus' hab kep' someting out all dey had." "So dey did, but it wan't much, an' I jus' b'lebe it's clar dun gone!" "What! de plantation in Virginny all gone?" "How often I tole you, Unc., dat I heard ole Missus say herself dat plantation was all trompl'd in de groun' an' what was lef' was took fer taxes." "I forgits," remarked Uncle Sheba, his eyes growing heavy in his lack of interest; "but ole Marse Wallingford mus' hab lef' de widder ob his son someting." "Now look heah, Unc., you'se haf asleep. You'se 'lowance too hebby dis ebenin'. How you forgit when I tell you ober an' ober? You doan keer. Dat's de foot de shoe's on. You know ole Marse Wallingford's plantation was trompl'd in de groun' too--not a stick or stone lef' by Sherman's sogers." "Well, dey sole dere fine house on Meetin' Street, an' dat mus' a brought a heap," protested Uncle Sheba, rousing himself a little. "Mighty little arter de mor'giges an' taxes was paid. Didn't I help dem pack up what dey tink dey could sabe, and see poah Missy Mara wrung her han's as she gib up dis ting an' dat ting till at las' she cry right out, 'Mought as well gib up eberyting. Why don't dey kill us too, like dey did all our folks?' You used to be so hot fer dat ole Guv'ner Moses and say he was like de Moses in de Bible--dat he was raised up fer ter lead de culled people to de promise' lan'. You vote fer him, an' hurrah fer him, an' whar's yer promise' lan'? Little you know 'bout Scripter when you say he secon' Moses. Don' want no more sich Moseses in dis town. Dey wouldn't lebe a brick heah ef dey could take dem off. He'n his tribe got away wid 'bout all ole Missus' and young Missus' prop'ty in my 'pinion. Anyhow I feels it in my bones dey's poah, an' I mus' try an' fin' out. Dey's so proud dey'd starbe fore dey'd let on." "'Spose you does fin' out, what kin you do? You gwine ter buy back de big house fer dem?" "I'se not de one ter talk big 'bout what I'se gwine ter do," replied Aun' Sheba, nodding her head portentously as she knocked the ashes from her pipe, and prepared for the remaining tasks of the evening. Her husband's self-interest took alarm at once, and he began to hitch uneasily on his chair. At last he broke out: "Now look heah, Aun' Sheba, you'se got suffin on you' min' 'bout dem white folks--" "Dem white folks! Who you talkin' 'bout?" "Well, dey ain't none o' our flesh an' blood, and de Bible say shuah dat dey dat don' pervide fer dere own flesh an' blood am wuss dan a inferdel." "Den I reckon you'se an inferdel, Mister Buggone," retorted Aun' Sheba, severely. "I'se not," retorted her husband, assuming much solemnity, "I'se a 'umble an' 'flicted sarbent ob de Lawd, an' it's my duty to 'monstrate wid you. I know what's on you' min'. You'se gwine ter do fer dem white folks when you got all you kin do now." "Mister Buggone, don' you call Miss Mara white folks no mo'."