nigger ain't what you call skeered o' work; he'll lie down beside de bigges' kind o' job an' go to sleep, jes ez nacheral.' Huh! you know Cunnel ain't gwine to take me way yonder to Afriky Landin', to larn dem niggers how to hoe cotton, 'cept I's a mighty good worker myself."
"Who is the Colonel?" Miss Stanton inquired with genuine interest.
"Lordee, Miss, he jes de Cunnel. How come you ain't heard o' Cunnel? Whar you been all yo' life?"
"I live in Virginia; in the mountains."
"Must be mighty high mountains, and mighty fer, ef you don't know Cunnel. Most ev'body knows Cunnel what knows me, all dem rich white folks up and down Cherry Street."
"Cherry Street? Where is that?"
Zack gazed upon her at first with a benevolent pity—then the smile broke: "Shucks, Missy, now you's prankin' wid me."
"No, really" Miss Stanton settled herself in a steamer-chair, and felt deliciously guilty at encouraging the gossip of a servant.
Zack gave an enthusiastic sketch of his most intimate friend, Colonel Beverly Spottiswoode, with personal details of all the rich white folks up and down Cherry Street. Then he launched into a description of Sherwood and Kathleen Plantations, cotton and negroes, bear
