Uncle Zack was sitting, shortly after noon a week later, on the door step of Bradford's cottage. Mesmie was sleeping by the aid of a mild narcotic, and Aunt Timmie, having darkened the windows, had now come quietly out to converse with him. Her seven days of vigilance had been trying to a degree, and, although while in the sick room she was the very soul of tenderness, this opportunity for relaxation came as a grateful relief. Therefore, Zack had been passing through several uncomfortable minutes, during the course of which he heard a great deal about "wu'thless niggers what sponges off dey twin wife," and other caustic observations.

His position was becoming altogether unbearable, yet he knew that if he attempted flight she would bring him back, and if he openly rebelled she would spank him. Only on the Colonel's last birthday she had turned him over her knee in good earnest, because he imbibed too many heel-taps to wait upon the table. So, resorting to diplomacy, he assumed a wise air and hinted that he might not be so untrustworthy as she had been misled to believe—that, indeed, he was the possessor of a startling piece of news.

This mollified Aunt Timmie. If she could get nothing else out of her gamble on Zack's earthly existence, she might at least know his secrets. As a matter of fact, she would be most righteously hurt if every family secret did not with proper humility walk up and lay its head in her lap. So she began, using a bait which long experience had proven fruitful when angling in Zack's vicinity.

"You don' know nuthin'," she tilted her chin with a grand air of scorn. "You never did know nuthin', an' it hu'ts me mos' persumptuously to say dat you ain' never gwine know nuthin'!"

"Don' make no diff'ence ef I knows nuthin', or not;—I knows sumfin, jest de same!" he retorted.

"Don' strain yohse'f dat a-way, li'l man," she sneered. "You ain' got sense 'nuff to know you ain' got no sense—an' dat's de wu'st fix a body kin be in!"

"Who says so?" Zack was driven to a question.

"Eve'ybody says so! 'Tain' no secret 'tween heah an' town!"

"You don' 'tatch 'nuff 'portance to me," he glared at her, quivering with indignation, "Since you lef heah de Cunnel don' do nuthin' 'thout fu'st axin' me!"

She laughed, guardedly on Mesmie's account, but it was a taunting, disdainful laugh that cut him to the quick. "Listen to dat!" she sneered. "An' Marse John done said he wouldn' trust you in jail!"

"Den how-cum he taken me wid 'im to find dat man Marse Dale done shoot?" the outraged old man, at last taking the bait, triumphantly dashed off with it.

Aunt Timmie straightened in her chair and her eyes rolled at him in terror.

"You'se lyin'," she said huskily.

The heat of vindicated vanity was in Zack's blood, and nothing would have kept him from rushing into details; dwelling upon each, and making them swell in all directions as he watched her ponderous frame heave with excitement. Finally she had the whole story, and enough exaggeration to dress up the entire calendar of crime. For several minutes she sat looking at her folded hands.

"I'se 'most sorry you tol' me dat," she said in a weak, pathetic voice. "But," squaring herself around at him with the former, towering strength, "don' you tell no one else! Heah me? Come on, now, an' hitch up mah buggy, whilst I call Miss Liz to look arter dis li'l gal. I'se gwine home fer awhile!"

In spite of the physical vigor which accompanied this, it was a very much saddened old woman who drove slowly along the pike, squinting her eyes to keep out its glare. Her lips moved as she talked over to herself the events made known by Zack, or the excuses she was building up for Dale. She was passing Hewlet's house now, when a woman's voice, high, whiney and querulous, floated out to her.

"Let the gal alone, Tom! Yer've done near bruised her arm off now, as 'tis!"

Aunt Timmie reined in.

"An' you kin keep yoh durned mouth shet," a man yelled, evidently in great excitement. "She ain't no moh yourn than she is mine, I reckon; an' she's goin' to git that money from her 'ristocratic friend, or I'll know why! Will you git it?" There was a sound of scuffle, as though someone were shaking another.

"No, I won't," a girl's voice came breathlessly.

There followed, then, the unmistakable sound of a blow, and more frantic protestations from the whining Mrs. Hewlet.

Aunt Timmie waited no longer. She climbed laboriously over the rickety wheel, pushed through the tottering gate, waddled up the sunbaked path lined with jimpson-weeds which were a-buzz with June-bugs, and hesitated just long enough to judge the carrying capacity of the decaying porch. She well knew the risks invited by going in here. If Tom were drunk enough and infuriated enough to strike his step-daughter, what might an old negress expect? And she reasonably well surmised the circumstances underlying Tom's present demand. She had not forgotten a fragment of Brent's conversation with the Colonel one day while she was gathering up their empty goblets, nor had Zack carried messages without her knowledge. It seemed that Aunt Timmie's over-powering presence had a faculty of drawing the innermost secrets from his small body and storing them in her own big frame, as though they were in need of a safer depository. Zack appreciated this, which was excuse enough for him. And, indeed, if they found their way only to Aunt Timmie's hospitable bosom, all situations were safe. She now knocked at the door and the noises abruptly stopped. Then it was jerked open by Tom who stood glaring at her.

"What d'you want?" he demanded.

"I want dat young step-gal of you-all's," she answered with dignity. "Dey's sent fer her over home."

"The hell they have," Tom exclaimed, with a leer.

"Yas, sah," she replied, secretly frightened, but humble and courteous before him. "I'se tol' to fetch her 'foh de trouble lands on you."

Tom paled. So they had changed their minds! He cursed his drunken folly for having tried to bluff two gentlemen of their stamp, and Mrs. Hewlet set up a wail of lamentation—as she would have done upon any provocation whatsoever, real or fancied. Nancy alone stood apparently unmoved before this blow, but her eyes had closed as though to shut out a horrible, approaching humiliation.

"What d'you mean?" Tom demanded huskily.

He was leaning against the table for support, licking his lips and staring. And in meeting this stare the old negress lost her own fright, for she saw a man thoroughly cowered and conquered.

"What d'you mean?" he again asked.

"I don' mean nuthin'," she declared, "'cept dat I knows when dem big jail dohs down dar at Frankfo't shets, dey's gwine stay shet a long time, dat's all. Make haste, chile, an' git in mah buggy 'foh I busts you one;—an' Mrs. Hewlet, dat screetchin' ain' gwine help none!"

Holding back the door for Nancy to pass, Timmie watched with grim satisfaction Tom's exit from the kitchen; and after they reached the buggy, both kept their eyes on him as he tramped through the orchard and disappeared over the hill. The black frame now began to shake.

"You kin go on back now, ef you wants to," she chuckled.

"Why, I thought something awful was about to happen!"

"So dar wuz sumfin awful 'bout to happen, an' happenin'," the old woman laughed. "But I done put de squee-gee on dat! I hyeerd de fracas, an' hyeerd what he uz sayin', an' knowed jest 'bout how-cum 'twuz."

"Oh, Aunt Timmie," the girl impulsively cried, "if everyone had your good heart!"

"Mah heart ain' nuthin' to brag on, chile. I jest happen to know dat in dis worl' dey's wicked people dat'll stoop deeper'n sin fer a dime; an' dey's onery people, so mis'ably onery, dat's afeerd to call dey soul dey own; an' dar's still anurr kind what ain' had no trainin', so when a stylish gemman comes 'long dey's mighty apt to go wrong, 'caze dey ain' had a faih show. Now, I reckon, I most named all de fambly;—I ain' sayin' what fambly, but I is sayin' dat ole Timmie knows moh'n most pussons reckons she do. 'Sides dat, she kin find moh 'xcuses in her heart den de worl' kin. Run 'long, now! I jest stepped in 'caze a li'l gal warn't gittin' a faih show!"

"Oh, Aunt Timmie," the girl cried, "I ain't bad! But that beast wouldn't care, if he could make them pay more for his farm!"

A strangely beautiful light swept across the wrinkled face.

"Look up at me, chile, an' say dat fu'st agin!"

Nancy raised her flushed cheeks and gazed into the age-marked eyes of her black inquisitor. Then slowly she repeated:

"I ain't bad, Aunt Timmie!"

A deep sigh, like the passing of cave winds, came from the old woman's throat.

"Praise de Lawd," she murmured. "I see now you'se not, honey; but jest why is too much fer me. Run 'long befoh Aunt Timmie make a fool of herse'f. Dat man's oudacious wickedness is got to be stopped—but you leave dat to me! Some day I'se gwine send fer you, an' you'se comin' widout axin' why. Heah dat? Run 'long, now; an' Gawd bress de li'l lamb!"

There was a riot of confusion in her mind as she climbed back into the buggy and scolded the old mule until he awoke—or pretended to awake. The universe as she had arranged it, as she had fitted it together into a mosaic picture before her cabin hearth-stone, was wrong. The little cubes were all askew. The technique was false. This girl, whom she had put into the pile of relics strewn along Brent's path, was no relic at all, and did not belong there. Dale, whom she had staged to rival that other gaunt nobleman of Nature—the product of Kentucky who began life not more than half a hundred miles from the very soil over which she now was driving, who had likewise toiled and endured much for an education; who had emancipated her race; whom, with latter day pride, she declared she had seen in his boyhood;—had now ruined his chances of being President by killing a man. She rocked slowly and pitifully to and fro, as the old mule ambled on, bemoaning the mess of pied cubes that now stood only for destroyed symmetry—a recalcitrant universe. She may have derived some comfort from the anticipation of rearranging Nancy to a nicer part, but this was vastly overshadowed by grief at Dale's untimely act.

She was not guiding the mule, and it turned of its own accord into the winding woodland road to Flat Rock. She probably did not realize home was so near until a gentle voice called her name.

Jane was on the lawn, beneath a low spreading, rambling maple tree whose summer shade had not for years been pierced by a single shaft of sunlight. A rustic table and some rustic chairs were there. It was a spot she chose for the examination of Dale's papers.

Aunt Timmie went on and tied the mule, but tarried not to change her freshly starched calico dress. This was no day whereon to spare clothes. Atop her red bandanna a sunbonnet perched neglected. A small, aggressive tuft of white wool had squeezed below this head-kerchief and was being held in check by ponderous silver-rimmed spectacles, absently pushed up on her forehead. Such an excess of head gear seemed excuse enough for the perspiration trickling down her face as she now looked sorrowfully at the girl.

"Is dem sums?" she asked.

With the pencil end between her teeth, Jane looked up and nodded.

"Well," Aunt Timmie sighed, "he's done done a sum now dat beats 'em all holler! I got to set down, honey; mah bones is jest cussin' wid misery."

Aunt Timmie, as may have been mentioned, never betrayed a secret except to the one confidant she implicitly trusted. This was Jane. And Jane would not breathe her trust but to the one person with whom she knew all things were safe. This was Ann. And Ann would have gone smilingly and willingly to the rack rather than whisper a word, except to Bob. And thus it was that, in the last resort, the stream from Uncle Zack's spring of secrets trickled through many silent places to pour itself into Bob's casual reservoirs.

Jane sat, pale and sometimes trembling, as Aunt Timmie unfolded the story of Zack's concoction, colored here and there with promptings of the old woman's own imagination. She heard each detail, and saw with shocking vividness the shot fired into the back of a man's head, and saw him fall across his threshold. Creepy feelings touched her body at this sickening reminder of a day she had stooped to awaken her father, and found that he had fallen in an everlasting, rather than a drunken, sleep. She shivered. The old woman finished, wiped her face and again mournfully rocked her body to and fro.

"When did it happen?" Jane whispered.

"I reckon sometime yistiddy; but it couldn' a-been so ve'y long ago, noway!"

Without another word Jane pushed back the sums and passed swiftly stableward across the lawn. There was no one at the stables, but she took down her bridle and walked past the long row of box-stalls, finally entering when she came to a horse she knew. Understanding something of her need, he took the bit in his mouth before she had even pressed it—a little act of kindness which, from that time forward, made her his staunch friend.

"Now if you won't swell up when I try to tighten the girth," she pleaded, on the verge of tears.

She had forgotten to whistle for Mac.