She shook her head.

“There are so many women who like handsome men, it’s a pity you can’t fall in love with one,” she said coldly.

“Am I to infer that you prefer ugly men?” he questioned.

“I—­oh!  I am too good-looking to care,” she replied.

She sprang up suddenly and stood beside him.  “We do look well together,” she said with grave audacity.

He laughed.  “I am flattered.  It may weigh with you in your future plans. 
Come, Eugie, let me love you!”

But her mood changed and she dragged him with her out into the autumn fields.

In the last days of November a long rain came—­a ruinous autumnal rain that beat the white roads into livid streams of mud and sent the sad dead leaves in shapeless tatters to the earth.  The glory of the fall had brought back the glory of her love; its death revived the agony of the long decay.

At night the rain throbbed upon the tin roof above her.  Sometimes she would turn upon her pillow, stuffing the blankets about her ears; but, muffled by the bedclothes, she heard always the incessant melancholy sound.  She heard it beating on the naked roof, rushing tumultuously to the overflowing pipes, dripping upon the wet stones of the gutter below, sweeping from the earth dead leaves, dead blossoms, dead desires.

In the day she watched it from the windows.  The flower beds, desolated, formed muddy fountains, the gravel walk was a shining rivulet, the sycamore held three yellow leaves that clung vainly to a sheltered bough, the aspen faced her, naked—­only the impenetrable gloom of the cedars was secure—­sombre and inviolate.

On the third day she went out into the rain; splashing miles through the heavy roads and returning with a glow in her cheeks and the savour of the dampness in her mouth.

Taking off her wet garments she carried them to the kitchen to be dried.  With the needed exercise, her cheerful animation had returned.

In the brick kitchen a gloomy group of negroes surrounded the stove.

“Dar’s gwine ter be a flood an’ de ea’th hit’s gwine ter pass away,” lamented Aunt Verbeny, lifting the ladle from a huge pot, the contents of which she was energetically stirring.  “Hit’s gwine ter pass away wid de men en de cattle en de crops, en de black folks dey’s gwine ter pass des’ de same es dey wuz white.”

“I’se monst’ous glad I’se got religion,” remarked a strange little negro woman who had come over to sell a string of hares her husband had shot.  “De Lawd He begun ter git mighty pressin’ las’ mont’, so I let ’im have His way.  Blessed be de name er de Lawd!  Is you a church member, Sis Delphy?”

“Yes, Lawd, a full-breasted member,” responded Delphy, clamping the declivity of her bosom.