“Yass, miss.” Lutie spoke in a tremulous voice.
“Was it—now speak the truth—was it—” Lettice looked cautiously around and lowered her voice—“Mr. Clinton?”
Lutie writhed, and twisted, and looked every way but at her mistress.
“Remember, you’ll be sorry if you don’t tell.”
“Miss Letty, what yuh gwine do ef I don’t tell?” at last Lutie inquired in desperation.
“What am I going to do? Don’t you know that old Aunt Hagar comes here every day to see me? You know she is a cunjure woman, she’ll do anything I ask her. You’d better look out.”
“’Deed an’ ’deed, Miss Letty,” wailed Lutie, dropping on her knees, and rocking back and forth, “I so skeered.”
“Of the Poly Bonypart man or the cunjure woman? Which?”
“Bofe of ’em. An’ I skeered o’ dat Cockbu’n. Jubal say he mos’ wuss’n Poly Bonypart.”
“Jubal does?”