Black Mayo jumped up.
“There’s Jack Mallett bringing Rosinante,� he said. “I left her at the shop to be shod, and told him I’d be back in ten minutes.�
“We all know the length of your ‘ten minutes,’� laughed Mrs. Osborne.
“It’s your fault, Miranda, all your fault,� Black Mayo turned on her. “You asked me to stay to supper; and you know I never know when to go home.�
By this time, Mr. Mallett and his son were at the steps, receiving a cordial greeting. They were a little circle of friends, gentlefolks and seamstress and blacksmith, who had grown up together in The Village.
As children and men and women, in school and shop and church, they played and worked and worshipped together. Each stood on his own merits, and only old negroes spoke slightingly of “poor white trash.� But the class lines were there, as deep or even deeper than when they were marked by wealth and land and slaves. An Osborne or Wilson or Mayo was—oh, well! an Osborne or Wilson or Mayo, and not a Tavis or Jones or Hight.
“I’m awfully sorry, Jack——� began Black Mayo, going to get his horse.
“Oh! that’s all right,� interrupted Mr. Mallett. “I was shutting up the shop and I saw you here, so I thought I’d bring the mare. She don’t like to stand tied.�
“Thank you, Jack.�
“Come in, Jack; come in, you and Fayett, and sit awhile,� said Red Mayo, heartily.