'I reckons, massa Joe!' replied the woman, running her hand through her wool, and grinning widely.
'What does he ask for them, aunty?'
'Doan't know, massa, but 'spect dey'm pooty high. Dem kine am hard ter raise.'
'Yes,' said Joe; 'white blood—even Dawsey's—don't take naturally to mud.'
'I reckons not, massa Joe!' said the old negress, with another grin.
Joe gave her a half-dollar piece, and, amid an avalanche of blessings, we passed on to Dawsey's 'mansion'—if mansion it could be called—a story-and-a-half shanty, about thirty feet square, covered with rough, unpainted boards, and lit by two small, dingy windows. It was approached by a sandy walk, and the ground around its front entrance was littered with apple peelings, potato parings, and the refuse of the culinary department.
Joe rapped at the door, and, in a moment, it opened, and a middle-aged mulatto woman appeared. As soon as she perceived Preston, she grasped his two hands, and exclaimed:
'Oh! massa Robert, do buy har! Massa'll kill har, ef you doan't.'
'But I can't, Dinah. Your master refuses my note, and I haven't the money now.'
'Oh! oh! He'll kill har; he say he will. She woan't gib in ter him, an' he'll kill har, shore. Oh! oh!' cried the woman, wringing her hands, and bursting into tears.