"Then, how can you expect their followers to be?"

"We cannot."

"Another disadvantage, is separate schools."

"I don't quite understand?"

"Well, mix the Negro children daily with the whites, and they are sure to become enamored of their ways."

"I gather your trend."

"The most helpful thing on earth. Negro children thereby are able, in a measure, to eradicate the little evils that come from poor homes; homes wherein the parents, ignorant often, are compelled to be away at work."

"Evil environment, bad influence!"

"That is it. There is no encouragement to read, therefore no opportunity to develop thought, and the habit of observation."

"How plain you make everything."

"And now we have come unto the church, and must end our conversation."

"I'm sorry."

He was, too, but they filed into the little church.

In and around where they now sat, there was quite a settlement of Negroes, mostly small farmers. Perhaps it was due to the inspiration of the successful Grey. She had, earlier in the evening, pointed out here and there where a Negro family owned five acres; where somewhere else they lived on and farmed ten acres and fifteen acres and so on. After slavery there had been a tendency on the part of the Negro to continue in the industrious ways he had been left in by his former master. The cultivation was strong; but strangely there had come a desire to go into town to see, and to loaf. Perhaps it was because he had not been given such a privilege during the days of bondage. But here in this little valley of the Kaw, he was cheered to see his race on a practical and sensible basis. Only in the pursuit of agriculture can the black man not complain that he is discriminated against on account of his color.

When the service was over, they walked leisurely homeward, and their conversation became more intimate. The feeling of a woman by his side thrilled Jean Baptiste. In his life on the prairies, this had never been afforded, so to him it was something new, and something gloriously sweet. Or was it her presence? At least he was moved. He decided that he would go his way soon, because it was dangerous for him to linger in her radiating presence without regretting what fate had willed.

"Isn't it warm tonight?" she said, when they reached the porch.

"Dreadfully so down here in your valley."

"Perhaps you will not care to retire, and would rather sit out where the air is best," she suggested.

"I would be glad to."

"Very well, then," and she found a seat where they were hidden by vines and the shade of the big house. "I'll return presently, when I have put my hat away."

When she returned, her curiosity to know why he had not visited her was, he could see again, her chief anxiety. She tried to have him divulge why in subtle ways. Late into the night they lingered on the veranda, and he found himself on the verge of confessing all to her.

He succeeded in keeping it from her that night, but she was resourceful.

Moreover, her curiosity had reached a point bordering on desperation.

Accordingly, she had the boys to hitch a team to a buggy and took him driving over the great estate. For hours during the cool of the morning, she drove him through orchards, and over wheat-fields where the wheat now reposed in shocks. She chatted freely, discoursed on almost every topic, and during it all he saw what a wonderfully courageous woman she was.

He loved the study of human nature, and wit. Here, he could see, was a rare woman, but withal there was about her something that disturbed him.

What was it? He kept trying to understand. He never quite succeeded until that night.

A heavy rain had fallen in the afternoon, and he lingered in her company at her invitation and encouragement. That night the sky was overcast, the air was sultry, and the night was very dark. She took him to their favorite seat within the vines, and where nothing but the darkness was their company. And there she resumed her artful efforts to have him tell her all.

Never in his life had Jean Baptiste the opportunity to be perfectly free. He had once loved dearly, and he had sought to forget the one he had so loved because of the _Custom of the Country_ and its law. Out of his life she had apparently gone, and we know the fate of the other.

There is nothing in the world so sweet as to love a woman. But, on the other hand, mayhap all that is considered love is not so; it may be merely passion, and it was passion he discovered that was guiding Irene Grey. He saw when this occurred to him, that in such a respect she was unusual. Well, his life had been an unhappy life; love free and openly he had never tasted but once, but a law higher than the law of the land had willed against that love, and he had subserved to custom. So he decided to tell her all, and leave on the morrow.

"Please, Jean," she begged, calling him by his first name. "Won't you tell it to _me_?"

He regarded her in the darkness beside him. She was very close, and he could feel the warmth of her body against his. He reached him out then, and boldly placed his arm about her. She yielded to the embrace without objection. He could feel the soft down of her hair against his face, and it served to intoxicate him; aroused the passion and desire in his hungry soul.

"_Yes_, Irene," he said then. "I will tell _you_ the story, and tomorrow I will go away."

"No," she said, and drew closer to him. On the impulse he embraced her, and in the darkness found her lips, and the kiss was like a soul touch.

He sighed when he turned away, but she caught his face and drew his lips where she could hear him closely.

"Tell me," she repeated. "For so long I have wanted to hear."

"Well, it was like this. You know--rather, perhaps you recall the circumstances under which we met."

"I remember _everything_, Jean."

"I was in love with no one, I can say, but I _had_ loved outside of our race."

"Our race?"

"Yes."

"You mean," she said, straightening curiously, "that you loved an Indian up there? That, I recall is the home of the Sioux?"

"No, I have _never_ loved an Indian."

"Then _what_?"

"A white girl."

"_Oh, Jean_," she said, and drew slightly away. He drew her back to him, and she yielded and settled closely in the curve of his arm, and he told her the story.

"Honestly, that was too bad. You sacrificed much. And to think that you _loved_ a white girl!"

"It was so."

"So it came that you sacrificed the real love to be loyal to the race we belong to?"

"I guess you may call it that."

"It was manly, though. I admire your strength."

"It was then I wrote you."

"Yes. And--"

"Others."