small black figure perched upon the crumbling stones. "You'd
better look out how you steal any more of my fishing lines, or I'll sell
you," he threatened.

"Gawd er live! I ain' stole one on 'em sence las' mont'," protested Zeke,
as he turned a somersault into the road, "en dat warn' stealin' 'case hit
warn' wu'th it," he added, rising to his feet and staring wistfully after
the wagon as it vanished in a sunny cloud of dust.

Over the broad meadows, filled with scattered wild flowers, the sound of
the chant still floated, with a shrill and troubled sweetness, upon the
wind. As he listened the little negro broke into a jubilant refrain,
beating his naked feet in the dust:--

"Gawd A'moughty bless you twel we
Me--et a--gin."

Then he looked slyly up at his young master.

"I 'low dar's one thing you cyarn do, Marse Champe."

"I bet there isn't," retorted Champe.

"You kin sell me ter Marse Minor--but Lawd, Lawd, you cyarn mek mammy leave
off whuppin' me. You cyarn do dat widout you 'uz a real ole marster
hese'f."

"I reckon I can," said Champe, indignantly. "I'd just like to see her lay
hands on you again. I can make mammy leave off whipping him, can't I,
Betty?"

But Betty, with a toss of her head, took her revenge.

"'Tain't so long since yo' mammy whipped you," she rejoined. "An' I reckon
'tain't so long since you needed it."

As she stood there, a spirited little figure, in a patch of faint sunshine,
her hair threw a halo of red gold about her head. When she smiled--and she
smiled now, saucily enough--her eyes had a trick of narrowing until they
became mere beams of light between her lashes. Her eyes would smile, though
her lips were as prim as a preacher's.

Virginia gave a timid pull at Betty's frock. "Champe's goin' home with us,"
she said, "his uncle told him to-- You're goin' home with us, ain't you,
Champe?"

"I ain't goin' home," responded Betty, jerking from Virginia's grasp. She
stood warm yet resolute in the middle of the road, her bonnet swinging in
her hands. "I ain't goin' home," she repeated.

Turning his back squarely upon her, Champe broke into a whistle of
unconcern. "You'd just better come along," he called over his shoulder as
he started off. "You'd just better come along, or you'll catch it."

"I ain't comin'," answered Betty, defiantly, and as they passed away
kicking the dust before them, she swung her bonnet hard, and spoke aloud to
herself. "I ain't comin'," she said