Virginia, apparently unconscious of his presence, was watching Roden narrowly as he walked at her side. Owing to that peculiar faculty with which only women are endowed, she was enabled thus to observe him while seemingly absorbed in the sun-shot vista of the road before them. He had taken off his coat, as the increasing sunlight and the exertion of walking had overheated him, and his flannel shirt expressed damply the splendid modelling of his supple body. She noticed how the sunburn stopped in a line about his throat, the fair flesh showing beneath with a girlish whiteness, as is often the case with very strong men. “It’s a heap whiter than mine,” thought Virginia. “I wish you’d sing,” he said, suddenly. “Will you?” “A nigger song?” said the girl, with a growing intuition in regard to his wishes. She then sang as follows: “Bright sunny mornin’ Nigger feel good, Axe on he shoulder Goin’ fur de wood. Little piece er hoe-cake ’Thout any fat; White folks quoil ’Case he eat all o’ dat. Hop ’long, hop ’long, hop ’long, Peter, Hop ’long, Peter’s son! Hoppergrass sittin’ on a sweet-e’ayter vine, Big tuckey-gorbler come up behine, Hop ’long, Peter’s son. “One bright mornin’ John did go Down in de medder fur ter mow; Ez he mowed acrost de fiel’ Great big sarpint bit him on de heel. He juck it up right in he hand, And back he went tuh Maury Ann; ‘Oh, Maury Ann, oh, don’ you see, One ole sarpint done bit me!’ Hop ’long, hop ’long, hop ’long, Peter, Hop ’long, Peter’s son.” Roden was delighted with her rich, reed-noted voice. She imitated the negroes’ tones to perfection. The inflection and intonation were without fault. “How well you do it!” he said. “It’s really awfully pretty. Can’t you give me another?” She sang him one or two more, and ended by repeating in a singsong fashion a little rhyme which convulsed him: “Mars’r had a leetle dorg, An’ he was three parts houn’; Ev’y time he strike a trail He bounce up off de groun’.” “They make up all these things, of course?” he asked her. “Oh yes,” said Virginia: “they’re awful fond of ‘makin’ hymes,’ as they call it. Here’s another: “Ef I had a needle an’ thread, Big ez I could sew, I’d stitch my ’Liza to my side, An’ off down de road I’d go.” He amused himself by trying to sing some of the various ditties after her, but, as they began to ascend the mountain, found that he needed all the breath at his command.