VIII.
"Ebenezer Green?"
"Dat's me."
"Peter Plumtree?"
"Dat's me."
"Toby Jackson?"
"Dat's me, Miss D'rindy."
"Rapidan Finley?"
"Dat's me."
She was calling the names of the field hands, and while she went over the list, her mind was busily assorting and grouping the faces before her. Yes, she knew them all. Ever since she could remember they had been a part of the country; she had passed them in the road every week, or seen them in the vegetable patches in front of their cabins. Like her mother, she was endowed with an intuitive understanding of the n*****s; she would always know how to keep on friendly terms with that immature but not ungenerous race. s*****y in Queen Elizabeth County had rested more lightly than elsewhere. The religion that made people hard to themselves, her moth
