The boy’s scanty clothing was soaked. He would not advance into the room, but remained with head bent, a heavy figure in the shadow. He looked tired and the circles beneath his eyes showed the need of sleep.
As he stood, hungry and ragged, he might have embodied the patient laborer of his patient race who for so long has planted the crop only to see another reap the harvest.
Hazel caught her breath as she saw his big lips tremble.
“Oh, Scip,” she whispered, “it was mean of me.”
The boy looked up at her. “I know I’s rough,” he said.
“Shut that door, Scip,” Granny called out, “and come in here. Never mind your clothes, child. We’s had working folks here before, and a little water won’t spoil this floor. Come get warm and drink this cocoa. Our Boston lady,” Granny said this with mock grandeur, “she done try make me believe cocoa beats coffee; she don’t know everything yet, Scip. But you can manage to drink the stuff, I reckon. Set here now, on this stool, close to the blaze. Don’t act like you thought you’d outen the fire. Hazel, pass that cornbread and give Scip a big plate for himself. Our guests always has big plates. And you, Scip, do your best by the bananas we boughten yesterday. Our Boston lady thinks they’s mighty fine, and the Lord certainly done do them up in pretty yellow husks. See me shell one, Scip.” And so Granny talked on until Scip, with his big plate on his lap, seated by the warm fire, felt at home.
When supper was over Granny made the shadows on the wall that Hazel loved, and after she was through Scip made still cleverer ones, Hazel thought. Then they all sat very still while Hazel recited poetry and read out of the book the minister gave her. It was a jolly evening.
When Scipio had said good-night, and with many invitations to come again, had gone out into the rain, Hazel brought the pitcher-plants in to her grandmother.
“Do they grow near here?” she asked.
“No, they come from the swamp, three miles south.”