“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
She hesitated a moment, thinking how she could make her reply a personal assault on Peter.
"'Cause you come heah, 'sputin' my rights, da' 's' why.”
“No,” demurred Peter, “you were quarreling in the kitchen the first morning I came here, and you didn't know I was on the place.”
“Well—I got my tribulations,” she snapped, staring suspiciously at these unusual questions.
There was a pause; then Peter said placatingly:
“I was just thinking, Aunt Rose, you might forget your tribulations if you didn't ride them all the time.”
“Hoccum! What you mean, ridin' my tribulations?”
“Thinking about them. The old Captain, for instance; you are no happier always abusing the old Captain.”
The old virago gave a sniff, tossed her head, but kept her eyes rolled suspiciously on Peter.
“Very often the way we think and act makes us happy or unhappy,” moralized Peter, broadly.
“Look heah, nigger, you ain't no preacher sont out by de Lawd to me!”
“Anyway, I am sure you would feel more friendly toward the Captain if you acted openly with him; for instance, if you didn't take off all his cold victuals, and handkerchiefs and socks, soap, kitchenware—”
