wuked fer any oder man. I 'member all about you slabin' an' how de good
major use' to let you off. You know, too, dat he war so took up wid his
book dat you could do foolishness right under his nose. An' dar was my
poah young Missy Mary, who hadn't de heart to hurt a skeeter. You s'pose I
watch ober dat broken-hearted lam' an' her little chile an' den heah 'em
called white folks, as if dey'se no 'count ter me? How ofen dat poah dyin'
lam' turn to me in de middle ob de night an' say ter me, Sheba, you will
took keer on my chile ef it libe, an' I say to her 'fore de Lawd dat I
would. An' I did too. Dat po' little moderless and faderless chile lay on
my bosom till I lubed it fer hersef, and Missy Mara neber gwine to hab
trubble when I ain't dar."

Aun' Sheba's voice had been reaching a higher and higher key under the
influence of reminiscence and indignation. Although her husband was in
dire trepidation he felt that this point was too serious to be yielded
without a desperate effort. He had been put on short allowance once before
when his wife had gone to help take care of Mara in a severe illness, and
now he had a presentiment that Aun' Sheba would try to help support the
girl and her great-aunt as well as himself. Such an attempt threatened
privations which were harrowing even to contemplate, and in a sort of
desperation he resolved once more to assert his marital position. "Aun'
Sheba," he began with much dignity, "I'se been bery easy an' bendin' like
ter you. I'se gib you you'se own head dead agin de principles ob Scripter
which say dat de husban' am de head ob de wife--"

"Mister Buggone," interrupted Aun' Sheba in a passion which was bursting
all restraint, "you'se wrestin' Scripter to you'se own 'struction. Ef you
am de head ob dis fam'ly, I'se gwine ter sit down an fole my hans, an you
can jes' git out an earn my libin' an' yours too. Git up dar now, an'
bring in de wood an' de kinlin' fer de mawnin', an' when mawnin' come, you