pound. The drying stalks were woven with endless spider-webs, all white with frost. Peter stood regarding their delicate geometries a moment longer and then reëntered his room, not knowing precisely what to do. He could hear Rose walking across the piazza to and from the dining-room, and the clink of tableware. A few minutes later a knock came at his door, and the old woman entered with a huge salver covered with steaming dishes.
The negress came into the room scowling, and seemed doubtful for a moment just how to shut the door and still hold the tray with both hands. She solved the problem by backing against the door tremendously. Then she saw Peter. She straightened and stared at him with outraged dignity.
“Well, 'fo' Gawd! Is I bringin' dish-here breakfus' to a nigger?”
“I suppose it's mine,” agreed Peter, amused.
“But whuffo, whuffo, nigger, is it dat you ain't come to de kitchen an' eat off'n de shelf? Is you sick?”
Peter admitted fair bodily vigor.
“Den whut de debbil is I got into!” cried Rose, angrily. “I ain't gwine wuck at no sich place, ca'yin' breakfus' to a big beef uv a nigger, stout as a mule. Say, nigger, wha-chu doin' in heah, anyway? Hoccum dis?”
Peter tried to explain that he was there to do a little writing for the Captain.
“Well, 'fo' Gawd, when niggers gits to writin' fuh
