"Put me to the plough, he says; but I can't stand it--I haven't
the strength. Why, this morning he made me hang around that
tobacco field in the blazing sun for two mortal hours, minding
those shiftless darkies. If I complain; or even go off to sit
down in a bit of shade, he rushes up and blusters about kicking
me out of doors unless I earn my bread. Oh, his temper is simply
awful, and he gets worse every day. He's growing stingy, too,
and makes us live like beggars. All the vegetables go to market
now, and most of the butter, and this morning he blew Aunt
Saidie's head off because she had spring chickens on the
breakfast table. I don't dare ask him for a penny, and yet he's
rich--one of the richest men in the State, they say."

"Well, it sounds jolly," observed Christopher, smiling.

"Oh, you can't imagine the state of things, and you'd never
believe it if I told you. It's worse than any fuss you ever heard
of or ever saw. I used to be able to twist him round my finger,
you know, and now he hates me worse than he does a snake. He
hasn't spoken a word to me since that scene we had at the
university, except to order me to go out and watch the Negroes
plant tobacco. If he finds out I want a thing he'll move heaven
and earth to keep me from getting it--and then sit by and grin.
He's got a devil in him, that's the truth, and there's nothing to
do except keep out of his way as much as possible. I'm patient,
too--Aunt Saidie knows it--and the only time I ever hit back was
when he jumped on you the other day. Then I got mad and struck
out hard, I tell you."

Christopher leaned over and began buckling and unbuckling a