"He didn't tell me."

"Didn't tell you!"

"I knew it when you returned home that morning."

"Well, well...."

"I was positive the administrator hadn't granted you an extension, nor wouldn't have, so it must have been some one near. So who else could it have been but Jean Baptiste."

"Of course not, now that I recall it; but did you tell him about it?"

Her eyes had business in her lap at the moment, _very_ much business.

She saw the sewing and she didn't see it. What she was seeing again was _what had happened one day when she had gone to carry his and her brother's luncheon_.... It passed before her, as it had done many times since. _Never_, she knew, would she be able to forget _that day, that day_ when the harvest was on, and he had said sweet words to her.... It was all past now, forever, but it was as fresh as the day it was done.

She understood why he had gone away, and when he returned and she had seen his face she understood then his sacrifice. She knew that the man's honor, his respect for his race and their struggle had brought him to commit the sacrifice. And strangely, she loved him the more for it. It had been an evidence of his great courage, the great strength with which he was possessed. It was strange that the only man she, a white girl, had ever loved was a Negro, and now when that was history, it seemed to relieve her when she could recall that he had been a _man_.

"Did you hear me, Aggie?" her father called now again. She started.

"Why--yes, father--I heard you," she said, straightening up. "And--of course--I told him about it...."

"Now I'm glad to hear that you did. It seems that you ought to have told me at the time--at least before we left there, so that I could have thanked him." He was silent for a time then and reflective.

"I wonder what sort of woman he married," he mused after a time.

"I don't know."

"I am sometimes a little afraid that he didn't get the right kind of woman.

"He was such a prince of a good fellow, that it would most likely have been his luck to have gotten a woman who would betray him in some way.

It is all rather strange, for I don't think he loved any woman but _you_, Aggie."

He darted his eyes quickly in her direction, recalling a time before when he had intimated something of the kind. This time, however, she did not cry out, but continued at her sewing as though he had not spoken.

As he slowly walked out, what was in his mind was the thing that had worried him before.

She looked after him and sighed. It was her effort then to forget the past, and in so doing, the inspiration with regard to music came again, and developed in her mind. But her efforts had brought so little encouragement from those to whom she had submitted her compositions that she for a long time despaired of making another effort.

So it was not until the great drought swept over the land and drove almost all the settlers from their claims in a search for food, that made her again resort to the effort.

The drought was even worse in the part of the country they now called home than it had been in Tripp County and other parts farther East. Corn that was planted under the sod one spring had actually not sprouted for two years, for the moisture that fell had never wet the earth that deep.

So, after two years in which they came nearer to starvation than they had ever before, she secured a position in a hotel in a town farther West, and the money earned thereby, she gave to her father and brothers to live on.

It was then she had returned to compositions in a desperate effort and hope to save them from disaster. For a long time she met with the usual rejections, and it was a year or more before anything she composed received any notice.

But _O, My Homesteader_ was an instantaneous success. While she still worked in the kitchen of the little hotel in the western village, the royalties came pouring in upon her so fast until she could hardly believe it. And coincident with the same, she became the recipient of numerous offers from almost everywhere. Most were for compositions; while many were offers to go on the stage, at which she was compelled to laugh. The very thought of her, a dishwasher in a country hotel, going on the stage! But she resigned her position and went back to her father and brothers on the farm. She used her money to pay off their debts and started them to farming, and made herself contented with staying on as she had done before, and keeping house for her father and the boys. She refused to submit any more manuscripts until the success of her first song was growing old, and then she released others which followed with a measure of success.

The offers from the East persisted; and with them, drought in the West continued and they saw that trying to farm so far west was, for the present time, at least, impractical. So they returned to Gregory where she purchased the place they had lived on. Owing to the fact that the drought had been severe there, also, she secured the place at a fair bargain, and they returned to farming the summer following the publication of Baptiste's book.

When she read it, she hardly knew what to think; but it was rather unusual she thought, because he had told a true story in every detail; but had chosen to leave his experiences with her out of it. She heard of him, and the disaster that had overcome him, and was sorry. She felt that if she could only help him in some way, it would give her relief.

And so the time passed, and he came again into her life in a strange and mysterious manner.

She was surprised one day to receive a visit in person from the publisher of her works. She was, to say the least, also flattered. He had come direct from Chicago to persuade her to come to the city, and while she was flattered and was really anxious to see the city, she refrained from going, but promised to write more music.

In the months that followed, he wrote to her, and the experience was new. Then his letters grew serious, and later she received the surprise.

He came again to see her and proposed. She hardly knew how to accept it, but he was so persistent. To be offered the love of a man of such a type, carried her off her feet, and she made him promise to wait.

He was very patient about it, and at last she concluded that while she did not feel that she really loved him yet, she was a woman, and growing no younger, and, besides, he was a successful publisher and the match seemed logical. So after some months in which she tried to make herself appear like the woman she knew he wished her to be, she accepted, but left the date for their wedding indefinite.

CHAPTER XI

THE BISHOP'S INQUISITION

The reverend McCarthy was commonly regarded as a good politician in church affairs, meaning, that he was successful with the Bishop in being able to hold the office of Presiding Elder over such a long period. At every conference other aspirants attempted to oust him. But he had always held with the Bishop and had succeeded himself annually until the five-year limit had expired. At the end of this time he had usually succeeded in manipulating matters in such a manner that he had invariably been successful in securing the same appointment over another district in the state. Over this he presided another five years, and was then automatically transferred back to the district over which he had formerly presided. For twenty years he had been successful in keeping this up, but in the conference that was to convene after he had been sued by his son-in-law, it became known and talked about that he would not be re-appointed to the Presiding Eldership, and would necessarily be sent to a charge for a year or more.

Accordingly, he began early to seek a charge which he was in position to know would be lucrative, since there were few outside the large churches in Chicago that would pay as well as the Presiding Eldership.

The fact was, however, he regretted going back to a charge, for his former experience in such work, in gaining and retaining the confidence of the members of his church had not been ideal, to say the least. And again, it was expedient that he should have his family, especially his wife, living in the town with him where he held the charge. Perhaps that made it awkward for him, as he was not accustomed to having his wife in such close proximity with him daily. His regard for her was such that he could not bear the thought of that close association. For his experience had been that it was impossible for him to be in the house with her a matter of two days without losing his patience and speaking harshly to her. To avoid this unpleasant domestic state of affairs it had been agreed that Orlean should be his housekeeper, and this was settled on before conference--and before he had been sued.

This pending suit, however, brought added complications. Ever since he had brought Orlean home, he had been embarrassed by gossips. Nowhere had he been able to turn unless some busy-body must stop him and inquire with regard to his daughter; what was the matter, etc., and so on. It kept him explaining and re-explaining, a subject that was to say the least, delicate. He had, however, succeeded in explaining and conveying the impression that the man she married had mistreated and neglected her, and that he had been compelled to go and get her in order to save her life. This was not satisfactory to him in view of the fact that he decided once to let her return, but Jean Baptiste not knowing that he had reached such a decision, had felt that his only chance to secure her again was to keep away from her father--well, we know the result of that effort.

But inasmuch as that Jean Baptiste had refused to argue with him over her, he had used this as an excuse to become his old self again, which, after all, was so much easier. So when 'Gene Crook had approached him with an offer, and convinced him that Baptiste was what the Elder knew he was not (because the Elder was easily to be convinced of anything toward the detriment of his adversary) he easily secured the place and the Elder had felt himself ahead. Three hundred dollars was a great deal of money to him, and went a long way in taking up the payments in which they were in arrears on the home they were buying in Chicago. True, it twitched his conscience, but N.J. McCarthy had a practice--long in effect--of crucifying conscience. So when he had closed the deal--and had been reimbursed for his traveling expenses--he went directly back to his work, and had not been in the city since until called in on the suit.

When he left the lawyer's office and returned home, he discussed the matter with Glavis, who in turn discussed the matter with white friends who advised him how to answer to the charge. Returning to the lawyer's office they engaged counsel. It was very annoying--more than ever--to the Elder when he was required to put up twenty-five dollars in cash as a retainer. He had become so accustomed to posing his way through in so many matters--letting some one else put up the money, that when he was forced to part with that amount of money he straightway appreciated the seriousness of the situation. It was no pleasant anticipation in looking forward to the trial, for there he would be compelled to counter the other on equal terms.

He was very disagreeable about the house when he returned home, and his wife adroitly kept out of his sight. He sought the street to walk off his anger and perturbation, only to run into a Mrs. Jones, teacher in the Sunday school of one of the large Negro churches, and with whom he had been long acquainted. It was, in a measure, because his acquaintances were of long standing that gave them, they felt, the right to question him regarding such delicate affairs. So when he met Mrs.

Jones, he doffed his hat in his usual lordly manner, and paused when she came to a stop.

"Good evening, Reverend Mac.," she exclaimed, and extended her long, lean hand. He grasped it, and bowing with accustomed dignity, replied:

"Good evening, Sister Jones. I trust that your health is the best."

"My health is good, Reverend Mac. But, say, Reverend Mac., you don't look so well."

"Indeed so, my dear madame, I have not been in the best of health for some months."

"Well, well, that is too bad, indeed. I hear that you have not been, Reverend Mac. And say, Brother McCarthy, what is this I read in the paper about your son-in-law coming in here and suing you for breaking up Orlean and he?"

His Majesty's head went up, while he colored unseen, and would have passed on, but Mrs. Jones was standing in such a manner that he was unable to do so without some difficulty.

"The man is crazy," he retorted shortly, and stiffened. But it took more than stiffness to satisfy this gossip.

"Well, I thought something was the matter, Reverend. For you see, I've heard that you went out there and brought her home to save him from killing her, so you see it is rather strange. That fellow, as a boy--and even yet, when he is in Chicago--attends Sunday school and sits in my class, and I was rather surprised that he should treat Orlean as it is said you said he did."

Reverend McCarthy would liked very well to have moved on. But Mrs. Jones was very much interested.