“No,” he answered gently. He came around to her. “Alicia, I couldn’t think nothin’ that was agin—you. Do you believe me?” Then, seeing that fresh tears were welling to her eyes, “Don’t cry. Homer ain’t guilty. I can tell you that. An’ what’s more, I’ll look out for him, little woman. You depend on it.”
There was silence between them again. He watched her, his grey eyes full of anxiety—even pain. She was brushing at her wet lashes, and looking out through the front door.
“I—I must go now,” she said presently.
“Must y’? Wal, will you come again soon?” He followed her to the door.
“You come and see us, Gid. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” He closed the door behind her, and as far as he could see her watched her go. She crossed the street, picking her way through the brick-red dust, ankle deep, to the railroad track that halved the town. The bobbing parasol now hid, now disclosed, her small, dark head and the girlish bow of wide ribbon at the nape of her neck. She passed the town hall opposite, entered a street that ran at right angles to the track, and disappeared from his sight beneath some low-branched pepper-trees.
He did not leave the door at once, but looked out to where he had last seen her. After a while, with a deep sigh, he returned slowly to his desk, stumbled over a pile of books at his armchair, and sat down. “She’s like a posy,” he half-whispered, “—like a posy, an’ him gamblin’!”
A wrangle of voices sounded from without. Then the sidewalk began to bang and creak to a double tread. The Judge took out his watch. It was eleven. He assumed a judicial attitude. The next moment a man and a woman paused at the front door, the one scolding into the face of the other, gave the door a thump, each with an angry fist, and entered.
“Gid’ll settle things fair,” cried the woman. “A lawyer would just run up a bill.”
“Wall, what’m I here for?” stormed the man. “I ain’t feared to let Gid settle it.”