on said; "de colored man is de best
husban'. He ain't thinkin' 'bout business while he makin' love, like
Marster Milburn. The black man thinks his sweetheart is business enough,
long as she likes him. He works fur her, to love her, not to be makin' a
fool of her, and put his own head full of hambition, as dey calls it.
You couldn't git along wid one o' dem pale, mutterin' white men, Virgie.
Now, Roxy's white man, he's most as keerless as a nigger; he kin't do
nothin' but make love, nohow. Dat's what she likes him fur."

"He's as kind a hearted man as there is in Princess Anne," Roxy spoke
up. "I never thought about him except as a friend. I know I sha'n't look
down on him because he likes a yellow girl, for then I would be looking
down on myself."

"Virgie," said Samson, "I reckon I'm a little ole, but you kin't fine
out whar it is. Ye ought to seen me fetch dat white hickory of a feller
in de eye yisterday, and he jest outen his teens. I know it's a kine of
impedent to be a courtin' of you, Virgie, dat's purtier dan Miss Vesty
herself--"

"Nobody can be as pretty as Miss Vesta," Virgie cried, delighted with
the compliment; "she's perfection."

"As I was gwyn to say," dryly added Samson, "I never just knowed what I
was a lettin' Marster Milburn keep my wages fur, till he married Miss
Vesty, and then I sot my eyes on Miss Vesty's friend an' maid, and I
says, 'Gracious goodness! dat's de loveliest gal in de world. I'll git
my money and buy her and set her free, and maybe she'll hab me, ole as I
am.'"

"She will, too, Samson, if you do that, I believe," Roxy cried; "see how
she's a-smiling and coloring about it."

Virgie's throat was sending up its tremors to her long-lashed eyes, and
a wild, speculative something throbbed in her slender wrists and beat in
the little jacket that was moulded to her swelling form: the first sight
of freedom in the wild doe--freedom, and a mate.

"My soul!" Roxy added, "if poor Mr. Wonnell could set me free, I think I
might pity him enough to be his wife."

Samson used his opportunity to stretch out his hand and take Virgie's,
while she indulged the wild dream.

"Dis han' is too purty," he said, "to be worn by a slave. Let me make it
free."

She turned away, but the negro had been a wise lover, and his plea
pierced home, and it struck the Caucasian fatherhood of the bright
quadroon.

"Freedom is mos' all I got," the negro continued; "it's wuth everything
but love, Virgie. Dat y