“‘You shall ab Cloe for a wife.’
“Cloe, Massa, was seventy-five, if she was one blessed second old. She was crippled with rheumatis, and walked on crutches, and hadn’t a tooth in her head. She was just doubled up like a tall nigger in a short bed.
“‘Oh, Lord, Missus,’ said Plutarch, ‘hab mercy on dis sinner, O dear Missus, O lubly Missus, oh hab mercy on dis child.’
“‘Tankee, Missus,’ said Cloe. ‘God bless you, Missus, I is quite appy now. I is a leetle too young for dat spark, for I is cuttin’ a new set o’ teeth now, and ab suffered from teethin’ most amazin’, but I will make him a lubin’ wife. Don’t be shy, Mr Plue,’ said she, and she up wid one ob her crutches and gub him a poke in de ribs dat made him grunt like a pig. ‘Come, tand up,’ said she, ‘till de parson tie de knot round your neck.’
“‘Oh! Lord, Missus,’ said he, ‘ab massy!’ But de parson married ’em, and said, ‘Slute your bride!’ but he didn’t move.
“‘He is so bashful,’ said Cloe, takin’ him round de neck and kissin’ ob him. ‘Oh, Missus!’ she said, ‘I is so proud ob my bridegroom—he do look so genteel wid ole massa’s frill shirt on, don’t he?’
“When dey went out o’ de room into de entry, Cloe fotched him a crack ober his pate with her crutch that sounded like a cocoa-nut, it was so hollow.
“‘Take dat,’ said she, ‘for not slutin’ ob your bride, you good-for-nottin’ onmanerly scallawag you.’
“Poor dear missus! she died dat identical night.”
“Come here, Sorrow,” said I; “come and look me in the face.”