A NEW MILL GIRL
The autumn had deepened—the cotton had been picked. The dry stalks, sentinelling the seared ground, waved their tattered remnants of unpicked bolls to and fro—summer's battle flags which had not yet fallen.
Millwood was astir early that morning—what there was of it. One by one the lean hounds had arisen from their beds of dry leaves under the beeches, and, shaking themselves with that hound-shake which began at their noses and ended in a circular twist of their skeleton tails, had begun to hunt for stray eggs and garbage. Yet their master was already up and astir.
He came out and took a long drink from the jug behind the door. He drank from the jug's mouth, and the gurgling echo sounded down the empty hall: Guggle—guggle—gone! Guggle—guggle—gone! It said to Edward Conway as plainly as if it had a voice.
“Yes, you've gone—that's the last of you. Everything is gone,” he said.
He sat down on his favorite chair, propped his feet upon the rotten balcony's rim and began to smoke.
Within, he heard Lily sobbing. Helen was trying to comfort her.
Conway glanced into the room. The oldest sister was dressed in a plain blue cotton gown—for to-day she would begin work at the mill. Conway remembered it. He winced, but smoked on and said nothing.
“'Tain't no use—'tain't no use,” sobbed the little one—“My mammy's gone—gone!”