"Don't do that," she protested, with a pretty grimace. "I've been in mourning for ages, it seems, and I'm sure I should hate you if you kept me in black for another year or two."
As they parted at Kenneth's gate,—it seemed to be mutely understood that he was to go no farther,—they observed a tall, black figure cross the little front porch of the house beyond and disappear through the door. Kenneth's eyes hardened. The girl, looking up into those eyes, shook her head and smiled wistfully.
"Will you come over and help me put all these things where they belong?" he asked, after a moment.
"This afternoon, Kenny?"
"If you haven't anything else you would rather—" he began.
"I can't wait to see how the house will look when we get everything in place. I will be over right after dinner,—unless mother needs me for something."
. . . . .
That evening Zachariah was noticeably perturbed. He had prepared a fine supper, and to his distress it was scarcely touched by his preoccupied master. Now, Zachariah was proud of his cooking. He was pleased to call himself, without fear of contradiction, "a natteral bo'n cook, from de bottom up." Moreover, his master was a gentleman whose appetite was known to be absolutely reliable; it could be depended upon at almost any hour of the day or night. Small wonder then that Zachariah was not only mystified but grieved as well. He eyed the solemn looking young man with anxiety.
"Ain't yo' all feelin' well, Marse Kenneth?" he inquired, with a justifiable trace of exasperation in his voice.
"What's that, Zachariah?" asked Kenneth, startled out of a profound reverie.