Wes in his
anger. Zenas an' me, we's use to it. Marse Wes dataway; som'n go wrong
he fly off de handle. Zenas ain't mislay no pitchfo'k--I seed Marse
Wes mahse'f wid dat pitchfo'k dis mawnin'. But eve'y once in a while
he git a temper fit an' blow off he mouf like dat. Sometimes he strike
some-buddy--but he doan often strike Zenas. Sometimes he git mad at
oner de hosses an' frail it proper. Dat high temper run in de Dean
fambly, chile. Dey gits mad, an' dey flies off, an' you just got to
stan' it."

"But does he--does he get over it quick?"

The old negress shook her head.

"He'll be mighty quiet come suppeh-time, not talkin' much, lookin'
dahk. Walk light, an' don't say nuffin' rile him up, eve'ything all
right. T'-morrow mawnin' come, he's outer it." Her voice rose into a
minor cadence, almost a chant. "Chile, it's a dahk shadder on all de
Deans--dey all mahked wid dat frown on deir foreheads, an' dey all got
dahk hours come to um. Marse Wes's maw she fade out an' die caze she
cain' stan' no such. His grammaw, she leave his grampaw. An' so on
back. Ontell some ooman marry a Dean who kin chase dat debbil outer
him, jes so long de Dean men lib in de shadder. I tole you, ain' I, de
day you come, sperrit an' sense carry you fur, but it's de haht gwine
carry you froo. Now you un'stan'."

Yes, Annie understood, imperfectly. So might Red Riding Hood have
understood when the wolf suddenly appeared beside her peaceful
pathway. She asked one more question, "Does he get mad often?" and
waited, trembling, for the answer.

Aunt Dolcey stuck out her underlip. "Sometime he do, en den again,
sometime he doan'. Mos' giner'ly he do."

Annie walked back to her letter, and looked at its last phrase. She
picked up the pen, but did not write.

Then with a quick intake of breath she took her first conscious step
in the path of loyal wifehood.

She added, writing fast: "He is the best man that ever lived, I do
believe," and signed her name, folded the letter and sealed it in its
envelope as quickly as she could.

At supper she watched Wes. He was, as Aunt Dolcey had predicted, very
silent; the vein in his forehead still twitched menacingly and the
pupils of his eyes were distended until the colour about them
disappeared in blackness. After he had eaten he went outside and
smoked, while Annie sat fiddling with a bit of sewing and dreading she
knew not what.

But nothing happened. Presently he came in, announced that he was
tire