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 Presently she steadied herself and began explaining in feeble little phrases, sandwiched between sobs and gasps:

“She—tuk a brooch—Kep'—kep' layin' it roun' in—h-her way, th-that young Sam Arkwright did,—a-an' finally she—she tuk hit. N-nen, when he seen he h-had her, he said sh-sh-she'd haf to d-do wh-whut he said, or he'd sen' her to-to ja-a-il!” Vannie sobbed drearily for a few moments on Peter's breast. “Sh-she did fuh a while: 'n 'en sh-she broke off wid h-him, anyhow, an'—an' he swo' out a wa'nt an sont her to jail!” The mother sobbed without comfort, and finally added: “Sh-she in a delicate fix now, an' 'at jail goin' to be a gloomy place fuh Cissie.”

The three negroes stood motionless in the dusty hallway, motionless save for the racking of Vannie's sobs.

Tump Pack stirred himself.

“Well, we gotta git her out.” His words trailed off. He stood wrinkling his half-inch of brow. “I wonder would dey exchange pris'ners; wonder ef I could go up an' serve out Cissie's term.”

“Oh, Tump!” gasped the woman, “ef you only could!”

“I'll step an' see, Miss Vannie. 'At sho ain't no place fuh a nice gal lak Cissie.” Tump turned on his mission, evidently intending to walk to Jonesboro and offer himself in the place of the prisoner.

Peter supported Vannie back into the poor