Plague on that Sambo, to kick up his yer row between me and the new hands! The fellow won't be fit to work for a week now,—right in the press of the season.

  Yes; just like you.

  Hah! you she-devil! you 've come back, have you?

  Yes, I have; come to have my own way, too!

  You lie, you jade! I 'll be up to my word. Either behave yourself, or stay down to the quarters, and fare and work with the rest.

  I 'd rather, ten thousand times, live in the dirtiest hole at the quarters, than be under your hoof!

  But you are under my hoof, for all that; that 's one comfort. So, sit down here on my knee, my dear, and hear to reason.

  Simon Legree, take care! You 're afraid of me, Simon; and you 've reason to be! But be careful, for I 've got the devil in me!

  Get out! I believe to my soul you have! After all, Cassy, why can't you be friends with me as you used to?

  Used to!

  Come, Cassy, I wish you 'd behave yourself decently.

  You talk about behaving decently! And what have you been doing? You, who have n't even sense enough to keep from spoiling one of your best hands, right in the most pressing season, just for your devilish temper!

  I was a fool, it 's a fact, to let any such brangle come up; but when the boy set up his will, he had to be broke in.

  I reckon you won't break him in!

  Won't I? I 'd like to know if I won't! He 'll be the first nigger that ever came it round me! I 'll break every bone in his body but he shall give up!

  No, he won't!

  I 'd like to know why, mistress.

  Because he 's done right, and he knows it, and won't say he 's doing wrong.

  Who a cuss cares what he knows? The nigger shall say what I please, or——-

  Or you 'll lose your bet on the cotton crop by keeping him out of the field just at this very press.

  But he will give up; of course he will. Don't I know what niggers is? He 'll beg like a dog this morning.

  He won't, Simon; you don't know this kind. You may kill him by inches, you won't get the first word of confession out him.

  We 'll see. Where is he?

  In the waste-room of the gin house.

  Would it be a sin to kill such a wretch as that?

  O, Cassy! is it you? I 'm so glad you've come! I was afraid it was ——- O, you won't know what a horrid noise there has been, down stairs, all this evening!

  I ought to know; I 've heard it often enough.

  O, Cassy! Do tell me,—could n't we get away from this place? I don't care where,—into the swamp among the snakes,—anywhere! Could n't we get somewhere away from here?

  Nowhere but into our graves!

  Did you ever try?

  I 've seen enough of trying, and what comes of it?

  I 'd be willing to live in the swamps, and gnaw the bark from trees. I an't afraid of snakes! I 'd rather have one near me than him.

  There have been a good many here of your opinion; but you could n't stay in the swamps. You 'd be tracked by the dogs, and brought back, and then—then—

  What would he do?

  What would n't he do, you 'd better ask! He 's learned his trade well among the pirates in the West Indies. You would n't sleep much, if I should tell you things I 've seen,—things that he tells of, sometimes, for good jokes. I 've heard screams here that I have n't been able to get out of my head for weeks and weeks. There 's a place way out down by the quarters, where you can see a black, blasted tree, and the ground all covered with black ashes. Ask any one what was done there, and see if they will dare to tell you.

  O, what do you mean?

  I won't tell you. I hate to think of it. And, I tell you, the Lord only knows what we may see to-morrow, if that poor fellow holds out as he 's begun!

  Horrid! O, Cassy, do tell me what I shall do!

  What I 've done. Do the best you can—do what you must, and make it up in hating and cursing!

  He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful brandy; and I hate it so—

  You 'd better drink. I hated it too; and now I can't live without it. One must have something—things don't look so dreadful when you take that.

  Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing.

  Mother told you! What use is it for mothers to say anything? You are all to be bought and paid for, and your souls belong to whoever gets you. That 's the way it goes. I say, drink brandy; drink all you can, and it 'll make things come easier!

  O, Cassy, do pity me!

  Pity you!—and don't I? Have n't I a daughter?—Lord knows where she is, and whose she is now,—going the way her mother went before her, I suppose, and that her children must go after her! There 's no end to the curse—forever!

  I wish I 'd never been born!

  That 's an old wish with me. I 've got used to wishing that. I 'd die if I dared to!

  It would be wicked to kill one's self.

  I don't know why;—no wickeder than things we live and do day after day. But the sisters told me things, when I was in the convent, that make me afraid to die. If it would only be the end of us, why then—

  Cassy!—I say!—Emmeline!

  There he is!—What now?