"Has he flown out?" I asked.
"Who, Marse Ben?" enquired the old negress, stopping her rocking and her lullaby at the same instant.
"The June beetle. I thought he'd break his wings on the ceiling."
"Go 'way f'om hyer, honey, he ain' gwine breck 'is wings. Dar's moughty little sense inside er dem, but dey ain' gwine do dat. Is yo' wits done come back?"
"Not quite. I feel crazy. Aunt Euphronasia!"
"W'at you atter, Marse Ben?"
"How did Sally manage?"
"Ef'n hit's de las' wud I speak, she's done managed jes exactly ez ef'n she wuz de Lawd A'moughty."
"And she didn't suffer?"
"Who? She? Dar ain' none un us suffer, honey, we'se all been livin' on de ve'y fat er de lan', we is. Dar's been roas' pig en shoat e'vy blessed day fur dinner."