On the other side of the woods, where good land overlooked the bay, the woman, Noma, sat in the opening of her hut gazing at the fire. It was burning low. The pieces of coke, glowing red in the midst of charred wood, no longer turned the trees around the clearing to flickering shadows. On this warm evening the woman had built her fire outdoors and hung the iron pot over it. The savory odor coming from that pot hung in the air. It was good, for into it had gone choice morsels put by during the week of toil. Noma was part Indian. Here on the shore of the Chesapeake she lived much as her mother’s people had lived for generations back. She made and sold nets for shad and herring, and she fished and hunted as well as any man. She was especially skillful at seine-hauling. Sandy had built the hut, but she planted and tended her garden. Six days and nights she lived here alone, but on the evening of the seventh day Sandy always came. Except in isolated communities and under particularly vicious conditions slaves did little work on Sunday. Sandy’s master allowed him to spend that one day a week with his wife. She sat now, her hands folded, waiting for Sandy. He was later than usual, but he would come. The fire was almost out when she heard him coming through the brush. This was so unusual that she started up in alarm. She did not cry out when he appeared, supporting a bruised and battered form. She acted instantly to get this helpless being out of sight. They carried the boy inside the hut and gently deposited him on the soft pile of reeds in the corner. No time was lost with questions. Quickly she brought warm water and stripped off the filthy rags. She bathed his wounds and wrapped a smooth green leaf about his head. She poured oil on the back, which all along its broad flatness lay open and raw, an oozing mass. A rib in his side seemed to be broken. They bound his middle with strips which she tore from her skirts. Then she brought a steaming bowl. Frederick had had nothing to eat all day. For the past six months his food had been “stock” and nothing more. Now he was certain that never had he tasted anything so good as this succulent mixture. Into the pot the woman had dropped bits of pork, crabs and oysters, a handful of crisp seaweed and, from her garden, okra and green peppers and soft, ripe tomatoes. In the hot ashes she had baked corn pone. Frederick ate greedily, smacking his lips. Sandy squatted beside him with his own bowl. A burning pine cone lighted them while they ate, and Sandy smiled at the woman. But hardly had he finished his bowl when sleep weighted Frederick down. The soothing oil, the sense of security and now this good hot food were too much for him. He fell asleep with the half-eaten pone in his hand.