"Frank," she murmured, "my good friend—my best friend—you loved me best of them all."
The tears rolled untouched down his cheeks. "I'd 'a' died, fer you, Miss Rena," he said brokenly.
Mary B. threw open a window to make way for the passing spirit, and the red and golden glory of the setting sun, triumphantly ending his daily course, flooded the narrow room with light.
Between sunset and dark a traveler, seated in a dusty buggy drawn by a tired horse, crossed the long river bridge and drove up Front Street. Just as the buggy reached the gate in front of the house behind the cedars, a woman was tying a piece of crape upon the door-knob. Pale with apprehension, Tryon sat as if petrified, until a tall, side-whiskered mulatto came down the garden walk to the front gate.
"Who's dead?" demanded Tryon hoarsely, scarcely recognizing his own voice.
"A young cullud 'oman, sah," answered Homer Pettifoot, touching his hat, "Mis' Molly Walden's daughter Rena."