t the road as she walked into the swamp. A moment she paused
and looked back; then slowly, almost painfully, she took the path back
to the field of the Fleece, and reaching it after long, long minutes,
began mechanically to pick the cotton. But the cotton glowed crimson in
the failing sun.

Bles walked toward the school. What had happened? he kept asking. And
yet he dared not question the awful shape that sat somewhere, cold and
still, behind his soul. He heard the hoofs of horses again. It was Miss
Taylor being brought back to the school to greet Miss Smith and break
the news of the coming of the party. He raised his hat. She did not
return the greeting, but he found her pausing at the gate. It seemed to
her too awful for this foolish fellow thus to throw himself away. She
faced him and he flinched as from some descending blow.

"Bles," she said primly, "have you absolutely no shame?"

He braced himself and raised his head proudly.

"I am going to marry her; it is no crime." Then he noted the expression
on her face, and paused.

She stepped back, scandalized.

"Can it be, Bles Alwyn," she said, "that you don't know the sort of girl
she is?"

He raised his hands and warded off her words, dumbly, as she turned to
go, almost frightened at the havoc she saw. The heavens flamed scarlet
in his eyes and he screamed.

"It's a lie! It's a damned lie!" He wheeled about and tore into the
swamp.

"It's a damned lie!" he shouted to the trees. "Is it?--is it?" chirped
the birds. "It's a cruel falsehood!" he moaned. "Is it?--is it?"
whispered the devils within.

It seemed to him as though suddenly the world was staggering and
faltering about him. The trees bent curiously and strange breathings
were upon the breezes. He unbuttoned his collar that he might get more
air. A thousand things he had forgotten surged suddenly to life. Slower
and slower he ran, more and more the thoughts crowded his head. He
thought of that first red night and the yelling and singing and wild
dancing; he thought of Cresswell's bitter words; he thought of Zora
telling how she stayed out nights; he thought of the little bower that
he had built her in the cotton field. A wild fear struggled with his
anger, but he kept repeating, "No, no," and then, "At any rate, she will
tell me the truth." She had never lied to him; she would not dare; he
clenched his hands, murder in his heart.

Slowly and more slowly he ran. He knew where she was--where she must