“Yass, miss. He dat dan’ified Mars Clinton, dat ain’t nuvver rid behin’ de houn’s, Jubal say.”
“Jubal is a goose.”
“Is yuh gwine to de house, Miss Letty? Shall I fetch yo book and yo wuck-bag?”
A smile flickered around Lettice’s lips. “No,” she answered, “I am going to stay here.”
Lutie sighed, and sank back again in the grass; she didn’t “y’arn fo’ de grabeyard” at any time, and hoped for an excuse which would set her free to go elsewhere. Lettice looked at her with an amused expression. “I believe you are scared to stay here, even in the daytime, Lutie,” she remarked.
“No, ma’am, Miss Letty, I ain’t ’zactly skeert, but I feels kin o’ creepy when I sees yuh a-settin’ on yo gre’t gran’daddy grabe.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Kase he de one dat ha’nt de place,” replied Lutie, in a whisper.
“Nonsense! I don’t believe it at all.”
“Yass, miss, he do so; he go on tur’ble, Jubal say, uvver since Mars Torm go ’way.”