"Certainly not; let her rest; sit down, Katie. How do you do?" said the judge, going towards his old servant and holding out his hands.
"Oh, marster! Oh, marster!" sobbed Katie, sinking into the seat and clinging to her master's venerable hands, upon which her tears fell like rain.
The judge gently withdrew his hands, but it was only that he might use them for Katie's relief.
He poured out a glass of the same restorative that he had found so effectual in his own case, and he made her drink it.
Poor Katie was unused to such stimulants, and she immediately felt its effects. Her eyes sparkled threateningly as she set the empty glass down upon the table.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, with indescribable force of spite; "ah, the whited saltpeter! Now I send her to de penumtenshury; now I send her dere to pick oakum in a crash gown and cropped hair, and an oberseer wid a big whip to drive her!"
"What is she talking of? What does she mean by whited saltpeter?" inquired the judge.
"'Whited sepulchre' is Katie's Scripture name for a hypocrite, I suppose," suggested Ishmael.
"Not on'y for a hypocrite, Marse Ishmael! Not on'y for a hypocrite; but for a pi'son, 'ceitful, lyin' white nigger!" said Katie, with her eyes snapping.
"Katie, Katie, you are using ugly words," remonstrated the judge.