“But what’s her other name?”
“I dunno. I reckon she ain’t got no other name. Leastways I dunno.”
“Is Wyanoke a fine plantation?”
“Fine, Mahstah? It’s de very finest dey is. It’s all out o-doors and I reckon dey’s a thousand cullud people on it.”
“Oh, hardly that,” answered the young man—“say eight or nine hundred—or perhaps one hundred would be nearer the mark.”
“No, Sir! De Brents is quality folks, Mahstah. Dey’s got more’n a thousan’ niggas, an’ two or three thousan’ horses, an’ as fer cows an’ hawgs you jes’ cawn’t count ’em! Dey eats dinner offen chaney plates every day an’ de forks at Wyanoke is all gold.”
“How many carriages do they keep, Dick?”
“Sebenteen, besides de barouche an’ de carryall.”
“Well, now you’d better be moving on. Your Miss Polly and your Miss Dorothy may be waiting for their letters.”
As the boy rode away, Dr. Arthur Brent resumed his brisk walk. He no longer concerned himself with the landscape, or the woods, or the wild flowers, or the beauty of the June morning, or anything else. He was thinking, and not to much purpose.