When the music died away Covey fell on his knees, his face lifted beside the oil lamp. His words poured forth with a passion and fervor which pounded like hammers in the stifling gloom. He groveled in shameless nakedness, turning all the hideousness of his fear upon their bowed heads. Then he rose, face shining and picking up a heavy, many-pronged cowhide from the corner, drove the shuffling figures out into the gray morning. Amelia remembered the cold: she had shivered in the hallway. The only slave left to help her sister was a slow, silent creature who now moved toward the kitchen. “We’ve et. The--the--” Lucy was speaking with a hesitation which Amelia recalled later. “The--woman will show you. Then you can help me with the renderin’.” It was warm in the big kitchen. A smoking lamp hanging from the ceiling swayed fretfully as the door closed and Lucy threw a piece of wood on the fire. Remains of a hasty meal were scattered upon the table. “Clean up this mess and give Miss Amelia some breakfast.” Amelia saw her sister shove the woman forward as she spoke. The tight hardness in her voice fell strangely upon Amelia’s ears. Without another word Lucy disappeared into the pantry. Amelia was afraid. She suddenly realized that it had been fear that had first stopped her on the threshold, and nothing had taken place to dissipate that fear--not the scripture reading, not the singing, not the prayer. She was afraid now of this silent, dark woman, whose face remained averted, whose step was noiseless. Surely some ominous threat lay behind the color of such--such creatures. Irrelevantly she remembered Tom’s black horse--the one on which he had come courting. Amelia made a peremptory gesture. “I’ll eat here!” Fear hardened her voice. She would eat like a grand lady being served by a nigger. And then the woman turned and looked at her. She was not old. Her brown skin was firm and smooth, her quivering mouth was young, and her large eyes, set far apart, were liquid shadows. _A man could drown himself in those shadows._ The thought was involuntary, unwilled, horrible--and instantly checked--but it added to her fear. She picked up bits of information throughout the long morning, while Lucy stirred grease sizzling in deep vats, dipped tallow candles and sewed strips of stiff, coarse cloth. The work about the house seemed endless, and Lucy drove herself from one task to another. Amelia wondered why she didn’t leave more for the slave woman. Finally she asked. The vehement passion in Lucy’s voice struck sharply. “The lazy cow!” Then, after a pause she added, “She’s a breeder.” Her lips snapped shut. “A breeder? What’s that? Does she have some special work?” Lucy laughed shortly. “Ain’t they no niggers up home yet?” she asked. Amelia shook her head. Lucy sighed. It was a sound of utter weariness. “Mr. Covey says you can’t git ahead without niggers. You jus’ can’t.” “But you said--” began Amelia.