manual labor await him, but gibes and bickerings. His father never let an opportunity pass to find fault with him and oppose him, not from any actual dislike he had for his son, but from a kind of jealous envy. Philip was all he had not been and in spite of the flattery of Aunt Peachy, Rolfe Bolling had sense enough to know that he had not made the best of his opportunities.
"When you 'spectin' of that there Phup?" queried Aunt Peachy, almost as though divining the thoughts of her mistress. "You cyarn't keep back from me that you is 'lowin' he'll be along soon. All this here scrubbin' an' cleanin'! It's a wonder my baby don't ketch his death with all the flo's wet with suds. I ain't nebber hearn tell er a lady bawn a gittin' down on her knees fer nothin' but prayer. Po' whites is funny folk! Ketch me a scrubbin' on my knees. I ain't nebber done it. Ol' marster ain't nebber required it er me an' as fer my baby, he'd a bit out his tongue befo' he'd arsk me ter do sich a thing. I've been known ter tie a rag roun' my foots an' wop up a flo', but I's too high bawn ter git on my knees fer man or beas'. My gret-gran'pap wa' a Afgan king what hel' hisse'f way above po' whites."
All of this in a high cackle, with never a word
