“De Lord be praised fu’ de blessin’s dat he showers down ‘pon us,” was Uncle Hiram’s graceful conclusion of his supper, after which he pushed his empty plate aside regretfully, and addressed Aunt Belindy. “ ‘Pears to me, Belindy, as you reached a pint wid dem bacon an’ greens to-night, dat you never tetched befo’. De pint o’ de flavorin’ is w’at I alludes to.”

“All de same, dat ain’t gwine to fetch no mo’,” was the rather uncivil reply to this neat compliment to her culinary powers.

“Dah!” cried the youthful Betsy, who formed one of the trio gathered together in the kitchen at Place-du-Bois. “Jis listen (to) Unc’ Hiurm! Aunt B’lindy neva tetched a han’ to dem bacon an’ greens. She tole me out o’ her own mouf to put’em on de fiar; she warn’t gwine pesta wid ’em.”

“Warn’t gwine pesta wid ’em?” administering a cuff on the ear of the too communicative Betsy, that sent her sprawling across the table. “T’inks I’se gwine pesta wid you-does you? Messin’ roun’ heah in de kitchin’ an’ ain’t tu’ned down a bed or drawed a bah, or done a lick o’ yo’ night wurk yit.”

“I is done my night wurk, too,” returned Betsy whimpering but defiantly, as she retreated beyond reach of further blows from Aunt Belindy’s powerful right hand.

“Dat harshness o’ yourn, Belindy, is wat’s a sourin’ yo’ tempa, an’ a turnin’ of it intur gall an’ wormwood. Does you know wat de Scripture tells us of de wrathful woman?”

“Whar I got time to go a foolin’ wid Scripture? W’at I wants to know; whar dat Pierson boy, he don’t come. He ben gone time ‘nough to walk to Natch’toches an’ back.”

“Ain’t dat him I years yonda tu de crib?” suggestod Betsy, coming to join Aunt Belindy in the open doorway.

“You heahs mos’ too much fu’ yo’ own good, you does, gal.”

But Betsy was right. For soon a tall, slim negro, young and coal black, mounted the stairs and came into the kitchen, where he deposited a meal bag filled with various necessities that he had brought from Centerville. He was one of the dancers who had displayed their skill before Melicent and Grégoire. Uncle Hiram at once accosted him.

“Well, Pierson, we jest a ben a wonderin’ consarnin’ you. W’at was de ‘casion o’ dat long delay?”

“De ‘casion? W’y man alive, I couldn’t git a dog gone soul in de town to wait on me.”

“Dat boy kin lie, yas,” said Aunt Belindy, “God A’mighty knows ever time I ben to Centaville dem sto’ keepas ain’t done a blessed t’ing but settin’ down.”

“Settin’ down-Lord! dey warn’t settin’ down to-day; you heah me.”

“W’at dey doin’ ef dey ain’t settin’ down, Unc’ Pierson?” asked Betsy with amiable curiosity.

“You jis drap dat ‘uncle,’ you,” turning wrathfully upon the girl, “sence w’en you start dat new trick?”

“Lef de chile ‘lone, Pierson, lef ‘er alone. Come heah, Betsy, an’ set by yo’ Uncle Hiurm.”

From the encouraging nearness of Uncle Hiram, she ventured to ask “w’at you ‘low dey doin’ ef dey ain’t settin’ down?” this time without adding the offensive title.

“Dey flyin’ ‘roun’, Lord! dey hidin’ dey sef! dey gittin’ out o’ de way, I tell you. Grégor jis ben a raisin’ ole Cain in Centaville.”

“I know’d it; could a’ tole you dat mese’f. My Lan’! but dats a piece, dat Grégor,” Aunt Belindy enunciated between paroxysms of laughter, seating herself with her fat arms resting on her knees, and her whole bearing announcing pleased anticipation.

“Dat boy neva did have no car’ fur de salvation o’ his soul,” groaned Uncle Hiram.

“W’at he ben a doin’ yonda?” demanded Aunt Belindy impatiently.

“Well,” said Pierson, assuming a declamatory air and position in the middle of the large kitchen, “he lef’ heah-w’at time he lef heah, Aunt B’lindy?”

“He done lef’ fo’ dinna, ‘caze I seed ’im a lopin’ to’ads de riva, time I flung dat Sampson boy out o’ de doo’, bringin’ dem greens in heah ‘dout washin’ of ’em.”

“Dat’s so; it war good dinna time w’en he come a lopin’ in town. Dat hoss look like he ben swimmin’ in Cane Riva, he done ride him so hard. He fling he se’f down front o’ Grammont’s sto’ an’ he come a stompin’ in, look like gwine hu’t somebody. Ole Grammont tell him, ‘How you come on, Grégor? Come ova tu de house an’ eat dinna wid us: de ladies be pleas tu see you.’ “

“Humph,” muttered Aunt Belindy, “dem Grammont gals be glad to see any t’ing dat got breeches on; lef ‘lone good lookin’ piece like dat Grégor.”

“Grégor, he neva sey, ‘Tank you dog,’ jis’ fling he big dolla down on de counta an’ ‘low ‘don’t want no dinna: gimme some w’iskey.’ ”

“Yas, yas, Lord,” from Aunt Belindy.

“Ole Grammont, he push de bottle to’ads ’im, an’ I ‘clar to Goodness ef he didn’ mos fill dat tumbla to de brim, an’ drink it down, neva blink a eye. Den he tu’n an treat ev’y las’ w’ite man stan’in’ roun’; dat ole kiarpenta man; de blacksmif; Marse Verdon. He keep on a treatin’; Grammont, he keep a handin’ out de w’iskey; Grégor he keep on a drinkin’ an a treatin’-Grammont, he keep a handin’ out; don’t make no odds tu him s’long uz dat bring de money in de draw. I ben a stan’in’ out on de gallery, me, a peekin’ in. An’ Grégor, he cuss and swar an’ he kiarry on, an ‘low he want play game poka. Den dey all goes a trompin’ in de back room an’ sets down roun’ de table, an’ I comes a creepin’ in, me, whar I kin look frough de doo’, an dar dey sets an’ plays an Grégor, he drinks w’iskey an’ he wins de money. An’ arta w’ile Marse Verdon, he little eyes blinkin’, he ‘low’, ‘y’ all had a shootin’ down tu Place-du-Bois, hein Grégor?’ Grégor, he neva say nuttin’: he jis’ draw he pistol slow out o’ he pocket an’ lay it down on de table; an’ he look squar in Marse Verdon eyes. Man! ef you eva seed some pussun tu’n’ w’ite!”

“Reckon dat heifa ‘Milky’ look black side li’le Verdon dat time,” chuckled Aunt Belindy.

“Jis’ uz w’ite uz Unc’ Hiurm’s shurt an’ a trimblin’, an’ neva say no mo’ ‘bout shootin’. Den ole Grammont, he kine o’ hang back an’ say, ‘You git de j............