Now, Roxy's white man, he's most as keerless as a nigger; he kin't do
nothin' but make love, nohow. Dat's what she likes him fur."
"He's as kind a hearted man as there is in Princess Anne," Roxy spoke
up. "I never thought about him except as a friend. I know I sha'n't look
down on him because he likes a yellow girl, for then I would be looking
down on myself."
"Virgie," said Samson, "I reckon I'm a little ole, but you kin't fine
out whar it is. Ye ought to seen me fetch dat white hickory of a feller
in de eye yisterday, and he jest outen his teens. I know it's a kine of
impedent to be a courtin' of you, Virgie, dat's purtier dan Miss Vesty
herself--"
"Nobody can be as pretty as Miss Vesta," Virgie cried, delighted with
the compliment; "she's perfection."
"As I was gwyn to say," dryly added Samson, "I never just knowed what I
was a lettin' Marster Milburn keep my wages fur, till he married Miss
Vesty, and then I sot my eyes on Miss Vesty's friend an' maid, and I
says, 'Gracious goodness! dat's de loveliest gal in de world. I'll git
my money and buy her and set her free, and maybe she'll hab me, ole as I
am.'"
"She will, too, Samson, if you do that, I believe," Roxy cried; "see how
she's a-smiling and coloring about it."
Virgie's throat was sending up its tremors to her long-lashed eyes, and
a wild, speculative something throbbed in her slender wrists and beat in
the little jacket that was moulded to her swelling form: the first sight
of freedom in the wild doe--freedom, and a mate.
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