Becky’s voice was sepulchral.

“You mean,” Angela asked, “that if Zalie comes back with a child that you want me to take it, find a home for it—­where no one will ever know?”

“You-all don promised to help me,” Becky pleaded, for she caught the doubting tone in Angela’s voice; “you-all ain’t goin’ back on that, air yo’?”

The burning eyes fell upon the cross at Angela’s side.

“No,” she said.  “No.  Becky, I promise to help you.  But suppose Zalie, should she have a child, refused to give it up?”

Becky’s face quivered.

“She won’t las’, Zalie won’t.”  The stricken voice was as confident as if Zalie already lay dead.  “Zalie ain’t got stayin’ powers, she ain’t.  She don have fever an’ what-all—­an’ she won’t las’ long—­she’ll go on The Ship!  But if you-all hide hit—­so The Ship can’t take hit—­if you-all give hit hit’s chance—­then the curse will be broke.”

There was pleading, renunciation, and command in the guttural voice: 

“Becky, I will promise to help you.  If there is a child and you renounce all claim to it, I will find a home for it.  It shall have its chance.  And now sit here and rest—­I am going to bring some food to you.”

Sister Angela arose and passed from the room.  The doing of the kindly, commonplace thing restored her to her usual calm.

She was not gone long, but when she returned, bearing the tray, Becky had departed and the chair in which she had sat was still swaying.

CHAPTER III

“I brushed all obstructions from my doorsill and stepped into the road.”

It was just after sunset the following day when Jed turned from the Big Road into the River Road and thanked God that the next five miles could be made before early darkness set in.

Beside him sat Meredith Thornton, white lipped and wide-eyed, and her aristocratic bags rattled around in the space behind.

The smile with which Meredith had faced her past three years lingered still on the set mouth—­the smile was for Jed.

“There seem to be more downs than ups on this road,” the girl said, in order to cover a groan.  “It will be awful after dark.”

“Dark or light, ma’am,” Jed returned, “it’s all the same to me, ma’am.  I know dese little ole humps like I know my fingers and toes, ma’am.”

“Do—­do you always hit the same humps?” Jed was hitting one now, squarely.

“Mostly, ma’am; but I’m studyin’ to get there before dark, ma’am.  If Washington now, ma’am”—­Jed indicated the sleeker of the two horses—­“had the ginger, so to speak, ma’am, as Lincoln has got—­why, ma’am, the River Road would be flyin’ out behind, ma’am, like it war a tail of a kite.”

Meredith managed to give a weak laugh and, as the wagon hit another hump, she edged toward Jed.  After a few moments he felt her head against his shoulder—­from suffering and exhaustion she fell into a brief and troubled sleep.