"Den I reckon dis yere b'longs to yo'," he said confidently, and he tugged and pulled the unruly beast within the boundary of the cow-yard, with no further damage to the place than the trampling of several choice plants and the breaking of a young apple tree.

"How much do I owe you?" asked Steve in a tone of subdued melancholy.

"Now, ma.s.sa, I's gwine tell yo' my story, an' den I lebes it to yo' to do de right ting by me. Yo' see, dis yere cow come to me jes' 'bout tree months ago, an' my wife she 'lowed it was a giff, but I sez, 'No, sah, no giffs come a-droppin' out de sky dat a-way. Dis yere b'longs to some ob de quality folk, an' dey's a-gwine to want her some day, so we mus' keep her up right smart, an' dey'll pay us fer all our trubble.' So we fed her ob de fat ob de lan', but 'peared like she were de kin' dat keeps lean anyways; dat's why she look so kin' o'

pulin' now.

"She was so contrairy to manage dat I got kin' o' skeered ob her, an'

one day she tuk me in de pit ob de stomach an' h'isted me ober de fence, an' I hed mis'ry in de stomach an' mis'ry in de back, an' my wife 'lowed I was gwine ter die. It tuk de doctor an' a powerful lot o' medicine ter sot me up agin, an' I was kin' o' porely fer a long time. Bimeby we heerd de cow b'longed ter Ma.s.sa Lubland, an' yo' libed out heah, an' jes' den a neighbor come 'long wid a load o' furn'ture an' I ax him:

"'Could yo' take de cow?'

"'Ef she'll hitch on I could,' he say. 'Is she peaceable or is she ornery?'

"'She's ornery heah,' I say, 'but she's gwine ter wawk 'long lak a lady when she's gwine home, 'case she's homesick.'

"Well, ma.s.sa, he done tuk her, but when he come back from de city he tole me she jes' sot herself agin goin', an' she sot so hard de hosses couldn't pull nohow, an' when he got down to loose her she rared till she fetched some o' de furn'ture down on her haid, an' dar was a nice table broke ter kindlin' wood, an' I hed ter pay him five dollars fer it. An' jes' as I put de pocket book up agin--an' it was plum'

empty--roun' de corner come de cow, wid her eyes on fire, an' she jes'

strewed us bofe ober de groun' like we was dead chickens afore she runned inter de shed. An' ma.s.sa, sho's yo's bawn, she hooked an'

tossed me like a rubber bawl all de way up heah, till I hain't got a whole bone anywhares in my body. Lordy! but she's a turrible critter!"

"Do I owe you ten dollars?" asked Steve with grim resignation.

"I takes whatever yo' gives, ma.s.sa, an' I doan complain; but I knows yo's hon'rable, an' yo's gwine ter 'member I was laid up from work a week an' hed ter pay de doctor an' de med'cines, an' I's fed her plum'

full fer tree months."

"Do I owe you fifteen dollars?" asked Steve.

The darky looked mournful.

"Do I owe you twenty?" asked Steve in a somewhat severe tone.

"Reckon yo' hain't gwine ter fergit I paid five fer de table,"

murmured this meek son of Africa.

"Take twenty-five, then, and make an end of it," said Steve.

"Tank yo', tank yo', ma.s.sa. I hain't nebber gwine ter fergit yo' ner de cow. Gawd bress yo' bofe, ma.s.sa."

And grinning and bowing he disappeared, leaving Steve minus a fifth of his monthly salary and plus the beautiful Sarah Maria.

It was part of the procession of events that the butcher should heave in sight at that moment, and that Steve should hail him and take him in to look at the returned prodigal.

"She's so lean she wouldn't be good for much," said the man. "If you'd fatten her up I'd----"

"No, I think not. I'd rather you'd take her now."

"I couldn't give you but ten dollars for her this way."

"Take her," said Steve.

And the bargain was concluded. Shortly after this Bridget was ill with cramps for a few days.

"What has upset you?" asked Nannie.

"I couldn't tell at fust," groaned Bridget, "but I mind now--it's thet Sarah Meriah."

"Why, she's gone! What can she have to do with you now?"

"Shure she was in that last beefsteak I ate. I recognized her the minnit she pa.s.sed me lips. 'Are ye back agin?' sez I, 'bad cess ter yez!' 'Thrue fer yez,' sez she, 'an' I'll be ther upsettin' of yez yit.' An' faith she is, fer it's feel her I do this blissed minnit, hookin' me in'ards an' kickin' me vitals, an' behavin' in a most disgraceful and unleddylike fashion throughout."

Possibly Nannie found herself more at leisure, now her bovine charge was off her hands, and wanted occupation, or--and this is more likely--the beauty and comfort of Randolph's and Constance's home had stolen to her heart and stirred new impulses there. Other influences had been at work on this neglected region as well, but to these Nannie did not as yet yield their meed of credit. It is a sad but well-known fact that the home agencies for regeneration are the last to receive recognition and grat.i.tude. So it was that while Nannie was dimly conscious that she owed something to Constance's womanliness, she refused to dwell upon the beauty and tenderness of Steve's conduct toward her. His uniform courtesy, gentleness, and forbearance, though the most powerful factors in her dissatisfaction with self and embryonic yearnings toward a more conscientious, n.o.bler life, were as yet utterly ignored by her in actual thought, and had her attention been called to them, she would probably have denied that she owed aught of good to their influence. This was discouraging, to be sure, but one must wait long and patiently for full results. It was enough, perhaps, for the present that Nannie went about her home trying, in a blundering way, to bring to pa.s.s some changes for the better. With a deeper insight than she recognized she looked to her table, first of all. Bridget was not a first-cla.s.s cook, and her limited repertory rendered the bill of fare wearisome and monotonous.

Several dishes that Nannie had seen on Constance's table had caught her eye. A tempting salad was one, and having learned how to make it, she gave her own table the benefit of this knowledge one evening.

Steve's face lighted with surprise and pleasure the moment the new and very attractive dish was brought on. He knew it was none of Bridget's making.

"This must be yours, my dear," he said with a gentle, winning smile.

Now, poor Nannie was terribly awkward about anything that involved a show of feeling, so instead of taking this as she should have done, she merely said brusquely:

"I made it."

Then she colored violently, then immediately looked defiant.

But her color and her defiance were both of them so pretty and engaging that Steve was moved by a rare impulse to go round to her and kiss her.

Shocking as it may seem, Nannie caught him by the nose with a sudden fierce motion and held on with grim, unrelenting grasp.

The whole scene occurred in a flash, as it were, and Steve was utterly unprepared for his own act, and still more so for its consequence.

Impulsiveness with him, however, was unusual and short-lived, and even under these untoward circ.u.mstances he soon recovered his gentle gravity.

"When are you going to release my nose, Nannie?" he said in his accustomed quiet tone.

"Goodness knows!" she replied brusquely--possibly without intent to pun--but she let go.

Steve retreated a step or two and seemed undecided as to what course to pursue. A certain air of dignity and reserve enveloped him at all times, and up to the present moment this had never failed to be respected by those with whom he had come in contact. It was hardly possible, then, to pa.s.s by so flagrant an outrage as this in silence.

"I hardly think," he said gently, "you mean all the things you do."

"I mean every one!" snapped Nannie, whose resentment was stirred, all the more so because she was ashamed of herself.

"If that is the case," Steve replied, and as he spoke, quietly and without anger, he was conscious of a dull dread of her reply--"if that is the case, it can't be that you feel either love or respect for me."

"I guess I don't, then," said Nannie rudely, and she rose from the table and went out into the garden.

Steve stood irresolute for a time; then he took his hat and left the house. Never in all his life before had he felt as miserable and as helpless. At that moment the beauty died not only out of his own life, but out of nature as well. There was no longer a balm in Gilead. He walked on, instinctively taking one of his old paths, from which he had heretofore received so much of comfort and inspiration, but which to-night gave him absolutely nothing of either. It would seem that nature had shared the blow he had received and had been deadened by it. Poor Mother Nature, she was just the same, but her child was out of gear and she could do nothing but wait. By-and-by a change came, not in the way of happiness, perhaps, but in a lightening of that deadness which is of necessity the most hopeless of all conditions.

Awaking from his torpor to a certain extent, Steve found himself engaged in some practical thoughts. He had lately been balancing his books, and the result was not encouraging. He was now reviewing this with a certain grim despondency and also a certain grim humor.