In the morning, Beth was wakened by Marian pulling up the shade. A stream of sunshine flooded their berth, blinding Beth for a second or two. Snow and clouds had been left far behind.
"It's almost like summer," cried Beth, hastening to dress.
After breakfast, the porter, whose name Beth learned was "Bob," took her out on the back platform while the engine was taking on water. To the left of the train were five colored children clustered around a stump.
"Bob, how many children have you?" asked Beth, and her eyes opened wide in astonishment.
"Law, honey," and Bob's grin widened, "I ain't got any chillun. I'se a bachelor."
Beth stamped her foot. She could not bear deceit. "Bob, it's very wrong to tell stories. These children must be yours; they're just like you."
He laughed so heartily at the idea, that Beth feared his mouth never would get into shape again. "Ha, ha, ha. Dem my chillun! Ha, ha, ha. Law, honey, dem ain't mine. Thank de Lord, I don't have to feed all dem hungry, sassy, little niggahs."
"Well, Bob, if they're not yours, whose are they?"
"Dem's jes' culled chillun."
A whistle sounded, and the train was soon under way again. Beth ran to her mother.