“But she’s white,” said the man. “I don’t keer ef she is; ain’t white folks got feelin’s same as we is?” asked Becky. “No,” said Monroe, “dey ain’t; some of um is mighty mean, yes, a heap of ’em.”
“Yo cayn’t set down here and ’buse Miss Vine,” said Becky, “we’re ’bleeged to gib her de praise. Ef its ’fo’ her face or ’hine her back, um boun’ to say it; she’s de feelin’est creetur, de free-heartedest, de most corndescendin’est young white ’oman, I ever seed in all my life,—fer a fac’. But when she done so”—here Becky shook her fist in imitation of Vine’s passionate outbreak, en said dat I done tole yer, Miss Eliza put in en spoke up she did, en says she, ‘Laviney, yo must certinly forgit yo is er lady!’ Whew! Miss Vine never heerd her. ’Twan’t no use fer nobody to say nuthin’. I tell you dat white gal rared en pitched untwel she bust into be bitteres’ cry yo ever heerd in yo life. She said dem devils warn’t satisfied wid killin’ her Paul, en makin’ her a lonesome widder, but here dey comes agin, jes’ as she were joyin’ herse’f, jes’ es she were takin’ a little plesyure, here dey comes a knockin’ uv it all in de haid, en spillin’ de fat in de fire.
“I was sorry for de chile, fer it was de Gawd’s trufe she spoke, so I comes back in heah, I did, en got some of dat strong coffee I dun saved for yo en me, en I het a cupful an brung it to her. ‘Here, honey,’ says I, ‘drink dis fer yo Becky, en d-o-n’t cry no mo’, dat’s my good baby!’ She wipe up her eyes, en stop cryin’, she did, en drunk de coffee. Dar I was, down on my knees, jes’ facin’ of her, and she handed back de cup. ’Twas one er ole Mis’ fine chaney cups. ‘Dat’s yo, honey,’ says I, ‘you musn’t grieve!’ en I was er pattin’ of her on de lap, when she tuck a sudden freak, en I let yo know she ups wid dem little foots wid de silver shoes on, en she kicked me spang over, broadcast, on de flo’.
“Den ole Miss Lizer, she wall her eyes at Miss Vine, en say, ‘Laviney, um ’stonished to see yo ax so.’ She mout as well er hilt her mouf—fer it didn’t do dat much good,” said Becky, snapping her fingers. “Den arter er while, Miss Vine seed me layin’ dar on de floor en she jumped up she did, en gin me her two han’s to pull me up. I des knowed I was too heavy for her to lif, but I tuck a holt of her, en drug her down in my lap en hugged her in my arms, pore young thing! Den I jes’ put her down e-a-s-y on de hath-rug, ’fo’ de fire, en kiver her up wid a shawl. Den I run up-sta’rs en fotch a piller, en right dar on de foot of de bed she had done laid out dat spangly tawlton dress, en I des knowed she wus gwine to put it on, en dance de Highlan’ fling dis very ebenin’. Can’t she out-dance de whole river anyhow?” said Becky.
“Oh!” said Monroe, “I don’t ’spute dat. I love to see her in her brother Frank’s close a-jumpin’ up to my fiddle! den she bangs a circus—dat she do!”
Becky continued her narration: “I comes back en lif’s her head on de piller, en pushed up the chunks to men’ de fire, en lef’ her dar sobbin’ herself down quiet.” Becky sighed and went on: “I tell yo, man, when dat little creetur dar in de house takes a good start—yo cayn’t hole her, nobody nee’n’ to try; you cayn’t phase her I tell you. En dar’s Beth, she’s gwine be jes’ sich er nother—I loves dat chile too! She don’t feature her mar neither, ’ceppen her curly head.
“But dis won’t do me. Less go up frum here, Monroe. Yo make up a light, en less go to de hen-house en ketch a pasel of dem young chickens, en put ’em in de coop. I wants to brile one soon in de mawnin’ en take it to Miss Vine wid some hot co’n cakes. She’s used to eatin’ when she fust wakes up, en um gwine to have sumpen ready fer her, fer I give you my word, dey ain’t de fust Gawd’s bit er nuthin ’tall lef’ frum dat ar’ dinner party.”