At that a queer, wiry brush, partly worn out, was thrown over the bars, falling so near Sally's head, it was well it missed hitting her. But no one saw the little girl beyond the strip fence, and immediately Bill was combing Hotspur's glossy sides with strokes so strong and even that the great horse stood stock still.
Sally looked at the brush Bill had tossed away.
"That looks as if it would make my hair lay slick," she said. "I'll take it home, carry it to the spring and wash it, and try it on my own mane."
She laughed at her own funny words and put the brush in a hanging pocket under her gown, that Mistress Brace had made for her to carry money in safely, when she went on errands.
Then away and away she wandered until she had reached the quarters and could peep at the cabins of the colored people through bushes and shrubs that were far beyond the stone wall, but on the same side.
At a little distance she looked upon Mammy Leezer sitting against the side of her cabin on a chair that had no back, her pipe in mouth, her hands lying idly in her lap, the knitting for once laid aside.
Sally wished she dared go over and talk with the old woman. Yet again that inner voice answered: "No, no! Mammy Leezer, though kind and comforting betimes, could not be a fitting companion for you. Go not after her, even though it be pleasant to meet her and hear her soft voice when she speaks to thee."
"Perhaps it is because she is black," thought Sally.
"Oh no, no!" spoke the little uprising voice again. "It is because you are different in every way from her and her race, and must not forget it."
Then it was that Sally remembered that several times of late there had seemed to be an inner voice that talked to her, and tried to teach her things she had not known, or at least had not thought of before.