"I do not believe you. Who has then?"
"Sure, an' I doesn't know. You allus lays eberyting on to me, Missis, when I'se jes as in'cent—"
"I wish to hear none of your palaver. You have stolen from me repeatedly; you know you have been just as hateful as you could be ever since—ever since Joe went away."
Mrs. Lisle had not designed this reference to Joe. Any mention of his name only made Kizzie more intractable.
Kizzie had been standing upon the threshold of her mistress' chamber, upon which she now sank down as if she had been shot. She had rolled herself into a ball, her grey head buried in her lap, from which issued the most protracted unearthly howl. This was succeeded by passionate ejaculations, in which "my poor Joe—my poor dear Joe, my baby—my last and only one"—were alone distinguishable.
"Kizzie, stop that acting, and get up from there," commanded Mrs. Lisle.
The ball swayed to and fro, but evinced no disposition for unbending.
"Bring me the whip, Lucy—we shall see."
The blows fell heavy and fast, but as for outward demonstration, cry or moan, that human form might as well have been a cotton bale.
The wearied hand of the mistress dropped by her side. She leaned against the casement panting for breath. Then Kizzie uprose tearless and stern.