Did she love him?  As he asked himself the question, Thorne’s heart bounded, and the blood coursed hotly through his veins.  He had tried to make her love him—­had he succeeded?  Thorne was no fatuous fool, blinded by his own vanity, but his power over women had been often tried, fully proven, and he had confidence in himself.  Once only had he failed of securing the love he sought, and it was the memory of that failure which made him pause and question now.  He was not sure.  She liked him, was pleasant and gracious, but he had seen her so to other men.  Never until this evening had she changed color at his touch.  She liked him—­and Thorne felt within him a fierce desire to change her passivity of regard into wild activity of passion.  He could do it.  That tide of crimson, a vague terror and awakening in the gray eyes, as they met his gaze on re-opening to consciousness, had shown him a tiny cleft which his hand might broaden, until it should flood their two lives with the light of love.

The echo of the footsteps deepened, merged into actual sound, drew nearer.  Thorne, in the deep obscurity of the trees, listened, moving near to the dusky, trunk of an old magnolia; he was in no mood for passing civilities, and in this friendly country all wayfarers exchanged greetings.  In the sound of the advancing steps, he could distinguish an unmistakable shuffle which proclaimed race—­two negroes returning from the little village, beyond Shirley, whither they had gone to make Christmas purchases.  They walked by the light of a flaring pine knot, which was encouraged to burn by being swung around violently from time to time; it lighted the men’s dark faces, and reflected itself in intermittent flashes on the sides of a bright tin bucket which the younger man carried, but it intensified the gloom around them.  Both had on their backs bags filled with lumpy things, like bundles.  They were talking cheerfully, and the sound of their rough voices and guttural laughter reached Thorne before the men themselves came abreast of his position.  The negro with the bucket was relating an anecdote.  Thorne caught part of it.

“Yes, sar,” he was saying, “dat was de fust ov it.  Mars Jim, he clumb right spang up to de tip-top de tree, an’ de ice was cracklin’, an’ slippin’, an’ rattlin’ down like broke up lamp chimblys.  De little gals was ‘pon de groun’ watchin’ him, an’ hollerin’ an’ wringin’ deir han’s.  I was loadin’ de ox-cart wid pine kindlin’s back in de woods, an’ when I hearn de chil’en hollerin’, I came runnin’ to see what was de matter wid ’em.”

“What he clumb arter?” questioned the other negro; “hit’s mighty dangersome gittin’ up trees when dey got sleet ’pon ’em.”