“Mr. Covey bought her,” Lucy explained with a sort of dogged grimness, “for--for more--stock. Mr. Covey’s plannin’ on buyin’ all this land. Niggers come high. You wouldn’s believe what Mr. Covey paid for that there Caroline.” Pride puckered her lips like green persimmon. Amelia swallowed. Her mouth felt very dry. She cleared her throat. “Well, he’s makin’ a good start.” “Oh, them!” Lucy bit her thread. “They ain’t all hissen. He takes slaves over from the plantations hereabouts to--train.” “Then he--” A cry of stark terror coming from the yard brought Amelia up in alarm. Lucy calmly listened a moment. “Sounds like Mr. Covey’s having to whop that Fred again,” she said. “He’s a bad one!” What Amelia was hearing now bleached her face. Lucy’s composed indifference rebuked her. She tried to control the trembling of her lips. “You mean--the boy--who sang this morning?” “That’s him--stubborn as a mule. Reckon that singin’ will be a mite weaker tomorrow.” And Mrs. Covey giggled. The day unwound like a scroll. By mid-afternoon fatigue settled all along Amelia’s limbs. Outside the sun shone brightly--perfect February weather for early plowing. The kitchen door stood open to the sunshine, and Amelia paused a moment looking out toward the bay. A small child two or three years old crawled out from under a bush and started trotting across the littered back yard. Amelia stood watching her. Beneath the tangled mass of brown curls the little face was streaked with dirt. It was still too cool for this tot to run about barefoot, Amelia thought, looking around for the mother. She held out her hand and the child stopped, staring at her with wide eyes. “Well, little one, where do you come from?” There was no answering smile on the child’s face. In that moment Amelia heard a swift step behind her. “Don’t touch that nigger!” Lucy’s voice cracked like a whip. Her face was distorted with fury. Amelia saw the dark woman, bending over a tub in the corner, lift her head. Lucy leaped at her and struck her full in the face. “Get that brat out of here,” she screamed. “Get her back where she belongs. Get her out!” With one movement the woman was across the floor and outside the door. She swept up the child in her arm and, holding her close, ran behind the barn. “How dare she! How dare she!” Lucy was shaking as with an ague--she seemed about to fall. Still Amelia did not understand. “But, Lucy--what are you saying? That child’s white.” “Shut up, you fool!” Her sister turned on her. “You fool! It’s her’s. It’s her’s, I tell you. And what is she? She’s a nigger--a filthy, stinking nigger!” She began to cry, and Amelia held her close, remembering the large green eyes, set in the little girl’s pinched face. * * * * *