The Preacher laughed aloud.
“Then let me beg of you, never meet Mrs. Durham. If you do, the war will break out again. I don’t wish to figure in a case of assault and battery. Mrs. Durham was the owner of fifty slaves. She represents the bluest of the blue blood of the slave-holding aristocracy of the South. She has never surrendered and she never will. Wars, surrenders, constitutional amendments and such little things make no impression on her mind whatever. If you think I am difficult, you had better not puzzle your brain over her. I am a mildly constructive man of progress. She is a Conservative.”
“Then we will say good-bye,” said Miss Walker, extending her small plump hand in friendly parting. “I accept your challenge which this interview implies. I will succeed if God lives,” and she set her lips with a snap that spoke volumes.
“And I will watch you from afar with sorrow and fear and trembling,” responded the Preacher.
CHAPTER VII—THE HEART OF A CHILD
MRS. GASTON’S recovery from the brain fever which followed her prostration was slow and painful. For days she would be quite herself as she would sit up in bed and smile at the wistful face of the boy who sat tenderly gazing into her eyes, or with swift feet was running to do her slightest wish.
Then days of relapse would follow when the child’s heart would ache and ache with a dumb sense of despair as he listened to her incoherent talk, and heard her meaningless laughter. When at length he could endure it no longer, he would call Aunt Eve, run from the house, as fast as his little legs could carry him, and in the woods lie down in the shadows and cry for hours.
“I wonder if God is dead?” he said one day as he lay and gazed at the clouds sweeping past the openings in the green foliage above.