Louisiana turned toward her. Her eyes were full of tears.
"Oh!" she whispered, "do you—do you think they know?"
Mrs. Nance was scandalized.
"Know!" she echoed. "Wa-al now, Louisianny, ef I didn't know yer raisin', an' thet ye'd been brought up with members all yer life, it'd go ag'in me powerful to hear ye talk thetaway. Ye know they know, an' thet they'll take it hard, ef they aint changed mightily, but, changed or not, I guess thar's mighty few sperrits es haint sense enough to see yer a-grievin' more an' longer than's good fur ye."
Louisiana turned to her window again. She rested her forehead against the frame-work and looked out for a little while. But at last she spoke.
"Perhaps you are right," she said. "It is true it would have hurt them when they were here. I think—I'll try to—to be happier."
"It's what'll please 'em best, if ye do, Louisianny," commented Mrs. Nance.
"I'll try," Louisiana answered. "I will go out now—the cold air will do me good, and when I come back you will see that I am—better."
"Wa-al," advised Mrs. Nance, "ef ye go, mind ye put on a plenty—an' don't stay long."
The excellent woman stood on the porch when the buggy was brought up, and having tucked the girl's wraps round her, watched her driven away.