either. Will you?"

    "I wont have to," the negro said. "I know what's in
that room <all the time>. I dont have to see."

    "Hah," Miss Emily said. "You do, do you. How long have
you known?" Again he made that brief sign with his hand. Miss
Emily had not turned her head. She gazed into the shadows where
the high dim ceiling was lost. "You should be glad. No you can go
to Chicago, like you've been talking about for thirty years. And
with what you'll get for the house and furniture.... Colonel Sar-
toris has the will. He'll see they dont rob you."

    "I dont want any house," the negro said.

    "You cant help yourself. It's signed and sealed thirty-
five years ago. Wasn't that our agreement when I found I couldn't
pay you any wages: that you were to have everything that was left
if you outlived me, and I was to bury you <with> in a coffin with
your name on a gold plate if I outlived you?" He said nothing.
"Wasn't it?" Miss Emily said."

    "I was young then. Wanted to be rich. But now I dont
want any house."

    "Not when you have wanted to go to Chicago for thirty
years?" Their breathing was alike: each that harsh, rasping
breath of the old, the short inhalations that do not reach the
bottom of the lungs: tireless, precarious, on the verge of ces-
sation for all time, as if anything might suffice: a word, a
look. "What are you doing to do, then?"

    "Going to the poorhouse."

    "The poorhouse? When I'm trying to fix you so you'll