And then--Caroline laughed! It wasn’t loud or long; but Covey sucked in his breath at the sound. “Caroline! Hold him!” The iron in his voice was leaking out. Caroline’s words were low in her throat--rusty because so seldom used. Two words came. “Who? Me?” She picked up the pail of milk and walked toward the house, dragging her leg a little. Frederick felt Covey go limp. And in that moment he sprang up, himself grabbed the knotty chunk of wood and backed away. Covey rolled over on to his side. He was not hurt, but he was dazed. When he did get to his feet, swaying a bit, the yard seemed crowded with dark, silent forms. Actually only four or five slaves, hearing the outcries, had come running and now showed the whites of their eyes from a safe distance. But Covey’s world was tottering. He must do something. The boy stood there, holding the stick. Now Covey went toward him. Frederick saw the defeat on his face, and he made no move to strike him. So Covey was able to take him by the shoulders and shake him mightily. “Now then, you wretch,” he said in a loud voice, “get on with your work! I wouldn’t ’a’ whipped you half so hard if you hadn’t resisted. That’ll teach you!” When he dropped his hands and turned around, the dark figures had slipped away. He stood a moment blinking up at the sun. It was going to be another hot day. He wiped his sleeve across his sweating face, leaving a smear of barnyard filth on his cheek. The kitchen door was closed. _Just like that skunk, Hughes, to go off and leave me!_ He’d send him packing off the place before night. But he didn’t want to go into the house now. He was tired. Covey walked over to the well and stood looking out toward the bay. Frederick once more started up the ladder. He would get some sweet, fresh hay for the oxen. Then he could lead them out. CHAPTER THREE _An old man drives his mule_ When Covey came down sick right after Hughes was fired, his wife was certain things would go to rack and ruin. Strangely enough, they did not. The stock got fed; the men left for the fields every morning; wood was cut and piled, and the never-ending job of picking cotton went on. Amelia thought she’d never seen anything prettier. Cotton didn’t grow up in the hills, and now the great green stalks with their bulbs of silver fascinated her. With no more floggings going on out back, she began to notice things. She found herself watching the rhythm of a slave’s movements at work, a black arm plunged into the gleaming mass. She even caught the remnants of a song floating back to her. There was peace in the air. And the boy Fred went scampering about like a colt. Inside the house, Covey groaned and cursed. After a time he sat silent, huddled in a chair, staring at the wall.