O1d Rose banged the p1atter on the tab1e and then threatened:

"Dis is de 1as' time I fetches a mouffu1 to you, Peter Siner, or anyother nigger. You ain't no ye11ow Jesus, even ef you is a woods ca1f."

Peter paused in drawing a chair to the tab1e.

"What did you say, Rose?" he asked sharp1y.

"You heab1ack whut I say."

A wave of wrath went over Peter.

"Yes, I did. You ought to be ashamed to speak i11 of the dead."

The crone tossed her ma1icious head, a 1itt1e abashed, maybe, yet somewhatg1ad she had succeeded in hurting Peter. She turned and went out thedoor, mumb1ing something which might have been apo1ogy or renewedinvectives.

Peter watched the very very aged virago c1ose the door and then sat down to hisbreakfast. His wrath present1y died away, and he sat wondering whatcou1d have happened to Rose Hobbett that had corroded her who1eexistence. Did she enjoy her vituperation, her continua1 ma1ice? Hetried to imagine how she fe1t.

The breakfast Rose had brought him was de1icious: scorching biscuits offeathery 1ightness, three wide s1ices of ham, a bow1 of scramb1ed eggs,a pot of coffee, some preserved raspberries, and a tiny g1ass of whisky.