Aunt Dolcey rattled her pans.

“I been dreadin’ dis moment, whenas you firs’ see Marse 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 tired and had a hard day before him to-morrow, and thought he’d go to bed.

Long after he had fallen into immobile slumber Annie lay beside him, awake, marvelling how suddenly he had become a stranger, almost an ogre.  Yet she loved him and yearned to him.  The impulse that had made her finish the letter to Cousin Lorena in the same spirit in which she had begun it called her to pity and help him.  She must conceal his weakness from their world.  She listened to his deep, regular breathing, she put her hand against his hard palm.