Afterward the entire party, including Jimmie Drake, who was regarded as the grand master of Cottonton by this time, took train for New York.  Regarding the environment, it was somewhat like a former ride “Garrison” had taken; regarding the atmosphere, it was as different as hope from despair.  Now Sue was seated by his side, her eyes never once leaving his face.  She was not ordinarily one to whom words were ungenerous, but now she could not talk.  She could only look and look, as if her happiness would vanish before his eyes.  “Garrison” was thinking, thinking of many things.  Somehow, words were unkind to him, too; somehow, they seemed quite unnecessary.

“Do you remember this time a year ago?” he asked gravely at length.  “It was the first time I saw you.  Then it was purgatory to exist, now it is heaven to live.  It must be a dream.  Why is it that those who deserve least, invariably are given most?  Is it the charity of Heaven, or—­what?” He turned and looked into her eyes.  She smuggled her hand across to his.

“You,” she exclaimed, a caressing, indolent inflection in her soft voice.  “You.”  That “you” is a peculiar characteristic caress of the Southerner.  Its meaning is infinite.  “I’m too happy to analyze,” she confided, her eyes growing dark.  “And it is not the charity of Heaven, but the charity of—­man.”

“You mustn’t say that,” he whispered.  “It is you, not me.  It is you who are all and I nothing.  It is you.”

She shook her head, smiling.  There was an air of seductive luxury about her.  She kept her eyes unwaveringly on his.  “You,” she said again.

“And there’s old Jimmie Drake,” added “Garrison” musingly, at length, a light in his eyes.  He nodded up the aisle where the turfman was entertaining the major and his wife.  “There’s a man, Sue, dear.  A man whose friendship is not a thing of condition nor circumstance.  I will always strive to earn, keep it as I will strive to be worthy of your love.  I know what it cost Drake to scratch Speedaway.  I will not, cannot forget.  We owe everything to him, dear; everything.”

“I know,” said the girl, nodding.  “And I, we owe everything to him.  He is sort of revered down home like a Messiah, or something like that.  You don’t know those days of complete misery and utter hopelessness, and what his coming meant.  He seemed like a great big sun bursting through a cyclone.  I think he understands that there is, and always will be, a very big, warm place in Cottonton’s heart for him.  At least, we-all have told him often enough.  He’s coming down home with us now—­with you.”

He turned and looked steadily into her great eyes.  His hand went out to meet hers.

“You,” whispered the girl again.