white folks, ants'll be jumpin' fuh bullfrogs—an havin' other niggers bring dey breakfusses. You jes as much a nigger as I is, Peter Siner, de brightes' day you ever seen!”
Peter began a conciliatory phrase.
Old Rose banged the platter on the table and then threatened:
“Dis is de las' time I fetches a moufful to you, Peter Siner, or any other nigger. You ain't no black Jesus, even ef you is a woods calf.”
Peter paused in drawing a chair to the table.
“What did you say, Rose?” he asked sharply.
“You heared whut I say.”
A wave of anger went over Peter.
“Yes, I did. You ought to be ashamed to speak ill of the dead.”
The crone tossed her malicious head, a little abashed, perhaps, yet very glad she had succeeded in hurting Peter. She turned and went out the door, mumbling something which might have been apology or renewed invectives.
Peter watched the old virago close the door and then sat down to his breakfast. His anger presently died away, and he sat wondering what could have happened to Rose Hobbett that had corroded her whole existence. Did she enjoy her vituperation, her continual malice? He tried to imagine how she felt.
The breakfast Rose had brought him was delicious: hot biscuits of feathery lightness, three wide slices of
