“Yes, I do hate you, Crisp, and I can’t help it.”
“I guess you want another dose of the lash, don’t you? If you do you can have it.”
Zula arose from the rough seat and took a step farther away from Crisp. Child though she was she looked up at the stars and made a firm resolution that she would in some way escape the surveillance of her cruel persecutor. He had never treated her as though she were his sister, and as each day his abuse of her grew more and more severe, her hatred increased.
“What would you give if I was to let you go without any more such threshings?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t give anything; for I don’t believe you’ll ever whip me that way again; I’ve been whipped enough.”
“You’ll find that out some other time.”
Zula made no reply, but when night came, and all were asleep, she lay planning a way to escape from the life she led.
“I believe I’ll comb my hair out sleek this morning,” she said to herself as she stood brushing back the heavy tangled mass. “I look awful dirty, but then we always look dirty.”
A heavy stroke on the shoulder startled her, as the voice of old Meg sounded close in her ear, saying:
“Here’s a whole basket full of work; now mind and 28 don’t come back till you sell every one of ’em, do ye hear?”