“Come, honey,” he shouted, “you’se a’dreaming! Come on, honey!”
She turned abruptly and gripped his hand, as one drowning grips anything offered‚ÅÝ‚Äîgripped till he winced.
She laughed a loud mirthless laugh, that came pouring like a sob from her deep lungs.
“Come on!” she mocked, and joined them.
They were a motley crowd, ragged, swaggering, jolly. There were husky, big-limbed youths, and boldfaced, loud-tongued girls.
Tomorrow they would start upcountry to some backwoods barony in the kingdom of cotton, and work till Christmas time.
Today was the last in town; there was craftily advanced money in their pockets and riot in their hearts. In the gathering twilight they marched noisily through the streets; in their midst, wide-eyed and laughing almost hysterically, marched Zora.
Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool meantime rode thoughtfully out of town toward Cresswell Oaks. She was returning from witnessing the Mardi Gras festivities at New Orleans and at the urgent invitation of the Cresswells had stopped off. She might even stay to the wedding if the new plans matured.
Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool was quite upset. Her French maid, on whom she had depended absolutely for five years or more, had left her.
“I think I want to try a colored maid,” she told the Cresswells, laughingly, as they drove home. “They have sweet voices and they can’t doff their uniform. Helene without her cap and apron was often mistaken for a lady, and while I was in New Orleans a French