y and sat upright. He had forgotten again. That part
of his life belonged to the past and, like the past, was gone, and was
not to come back again. The present had life and hope now, and the
purpose born that day from five blank years was like the sudden birth of
a flower in a desert.

The sun had burst from the horizon now and was shining through the tops
of the trees in the lovely woodland into which Crittenden turned, and
through which a road of brown creek-sand ran to the pasture beyond and
through that to the long avenue of locusts, up which the noble portico
of his old homestead, Canewood, was visible among cedars and firs and
old forest trees. His mother was not up yet--the shutters of her window
were still closed--but the servants were astir and busy. He could see
men and plough-horses on their way to the fields; and, that far away, he
could hear the sound of old Ephraim's axe at the woodpile, the noises
around the barn and cowpens, and old Aunt Keziah singing a hymn in the
kitchen, the old wailing cry of the mother-slave.

"Oh I wonder whur my baby's done gone,
Oh Lawd!
An' I git on my knees an' pray."

The song stopped, a negro boy sprang out the kitchen-door and ran for
the stiles--a tall, strong, and very black boy with a dancing eye, white
teeth, and a look of welcome that was little short of dumb idolatry.

"Howdy, Bob."

"Howdy, Ole Cap'n." Crittenden had been "Ole Captain" with the
servants--since the death of "Ole Master," his father--to distinguish
him from "Young Captain," who was his brother, Basil. Master and servant
shook hands and Bob's teeth flashed.

"What's the matter, Bob?"

Bob climbed into the buggy.

"You gwine to de wah."

Crittenden laughed.

"How do you know, Bob?"

"Oh, I know--I know. I seed it when you was drivin' up to de stiles, an'
lemme tell you, Ole Cap'n." The horse started for the barn suddenly and
Bob took a wide circuit in order to catch the eye of a brown milkmaid in
the cowpens, who sniffed the air scornfully, to show that she did not
see him, and buried the waves of her black hair into the silken sides of
a young Jersey.

"Yes," he said, shaking his head and making threats to himself, "an'
Bob's gwine wid him."

As Crittenden climbed the stiles, old Keziah filled the kitchen-door.

"Time you gittin' back, suh," she cried with mock severity. "I been
studyin' 'bout you. Little mo' an' I'd 'a' been comin' fer you myself.
Yes--suh."

A