“Oh, dear, who would kill you?”
“Why, Crisp.”
“And who is Crisp?”
“Why, he’s my brother,” Zula said, lowering her voice to a soft whisper, “and if he finds me he’ll kill me.”
“Crisp,” Mary repeated. “What a funny name. But I thought you said you had no home.”
“Well, I hain’t got any, my mam she lets Crisp whip me and they kept me two days and all night without anything to eat and they tied me down to the ground, and I couldn’t hardly get up and then I was so lame, and when I got here that nasty boy run against me and hurt me, and it just seems as though I was made to hurt.”
“Poor little girl; it’s too bad. What is your name?”
“I hain’t got any name but Zula.”
“Zula? Well, I am sure that is a pretty name; but goodness! What a lovely head of hair for such a little mite as you. I wish I had it.”
“I wish I didn’t have it, for Crisp pulls it so hard that it seems to me I can’t stand it.”