Sam was in his dress-suit with his overcoat off and his hair in a mop; and in a faltering jumble of several languages he was trying to tell something to a gaunt, fierce woman in a wide ragged skirt, a shapeless, torn man’s coat, with a faded woolen scarf over her head.  In her arms she had a baby, and a woman with a baby in her arms knelt beside her; while a dozen other women with children, ragged, pale, frightened little children in their arms, and at their skirts, hung in a sullen group back of her.  A crowd of dejected, hungry, gaunt men stood to one side, and one very old man had his old woolen cap off his white head, which I could see was bowed in prayer.  In a moment I knew from their Flemish patois, which I had heard so often out in the fields of beautiful Belgium during that happy month just before the war, that they were refugees, and my heart went out in a rush to them as I went in a rush to Sam and grasped his arm.

“Oh, what is it, Sam, and what do they want?” I asked.

“They are emigrants from Belgium.  The Commissioner has had me appointed to settle them in the Harpeth Valley on lands near my own, for which he has options.  I came on in response to his telegram to meet them to-morrow, but they were landed here on the dock at one o’clock in the night, because of a fire on the steamer.  I came right down from the theater, but they are frightened and the women have lost all confidence in everything.  They don’t seem to want to go with me to the car that we have ready to take them to Tennessee.  I can’t understand them, nor they me, and I sent for you.  You’re a woman, Betty.  See what you can do to comfort and hearten them and make them ready to go with me when the train leaves in less than two hours.”

Oh, I know I am young and have been sheltered, and don’t know what it is to be shot at and killed, and have my children torn from my arms and to be hungry and cold.  But women do understand other suffering women, and when I stretched out my hands to the fierce woman with her starving child at her breast, I knew what to falter out in a mixture of her own patois and mine.

“Il est bon—­a good, good man. Alle avec—­go with him,” I pleaded.

“But it is a fine gentleman!  No, we come to a master, to work that we do not starve.  A landowner,” she said, and regarded Sam in his purple and fine broadcloth with fierce and desperate distrust that the other women also expressed with hissing breaths which brought surly growls of suspicious acquiescence from the men.

“But look, look!” I exclaimed.  I turned to Sam and drew one of his big, farm-worn hands forward and held it in mine out to the fierce woman, behind whom the others cowered.  There was the broad thumb, off of which the barrel of peas had smashed the nail.  There were the deep plow-callouses in the palms, and the plow-ropes’ hard gall around the left wrist.  The fierce woman’s somber eyes lighted; for the first time she looked up past Sam’s velvety white shirt-front with its pearl studs, up into the calm eyes that were smoldering their gridiron look down at her and the whimpering women and children.