“Don’t cry,” said he, “everything will be all right when we get to Grangersons—we’ll just go on.”
The horses started again and Phyl dried her eyes. They covered another five miles without speaking, and then Silas said:
“You don’t mean to stick to me, then?”
“I can’t,” said Phyl.
“You care for some one else better?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Pinckney?”
“Yes.”
“God!” said he. He cut the off horse with the whip. The horses nearly bolted, he reined them in and they settled down again to their pace.
The country was very desolate just here, cotton fields and swampy grounds with here and there a stretch of water reflecting the blue of the sky.