Miss Sally was anxious to get out of her riding-skirt at Poynton’s, and bully the black boy who would come to take her bridle. The wealthiest slave-owner in Kentucky could not exact more deference. Everybody humored her. In a country where hospitality was a social religion, her little visits of a month or two were welcomed even when they crowded dearer guests. And in spite of fine traits concealed under the haughty airs of a nomad, well did she know how to crowd people distasteful to her.
When she turned into Poynton’s avenue, the white pillared mansion seemed to doze. The quarters stretched in a long row fieldward. Miss Sally could not see the kitchen, standing by itself behind the great house. No drowsiness had settled there. A stir of preparation was going on, not only for the two o’clock dinner, but for the wedding yet a week distant. Miss Sally had omitted one place in her rounds, and shortened her visit at another, that she might be at Poynton’s in time to gather every detail of the wedding.
A yellow boy skipped out to help her at the mounting-block. He would have lounged to meet his master. Approvingly she saw him pull his hat to her.
“Miss Sally, you sho’ly bake you’se’f to-day!”
“Yes, it’s hot, Peach. And if you’re concerned for me I hope you’ll feel more concern about Pacer.” Miss Vandewater’s anxiety about her property grew in the ratio of its approach to a crib.
“Sam’ll rub her down,” promised Peachy. “I’ll tell Sam to give her a good feed.”
“You attend to it yourself,” commanded Miss Sally.
“I isn’t a stable-boy,” remonstrated Peachy. “I’se a house-boy.”
“House-boy or stable-boy, you mind what I tell you. In my father’s time—and he owned fifty—our boys did whatever they were told to do.”
“Ya-as, m’m.”