"Life should be made to appear light, sweetheart," he said, caressing her. "Grandmother will be here with you and if you need for anything, draw a check and have the neighbors below bring it out. It is only three miles over the hill to Carter, you understand."
"By the way, dear," she said suddenly, going into the bedroom, and returning presently with a letter. "This is from mama. She writes that they have never told papa yet, and hopes that nothing serious will happen for then she would never—we would never be forgiven by him."
"Dear Little Mother Mary," he said fondly. "I hope nothing will happen, Orlean, for our sakes." And then he paused. He had started to say that he was not worried about her father's forgiveness. He had lost what little patience he had ever had with that one, and did not propose to be annoyed with his love, the love that he had to be continually making excuses and apologies to entertain. But before he had spoken he thought better of it, and decided to say nothing about it. His wife had been trained to regard her father as a king, and because he had succeeded in letting her see that after all he was just a Negro preacher with the most that went with Negro preachers in him, she had at last ceased to bore him with telling him how great her father was.
They were at her claim, and he was about to depart for his original homestead to clean up work preparatory to moving onto her claim permanently as he had intended to do. Already his wagons with horses hitched thereto stood near, and he was only lingering for a few parting words with her.
"I am kind of sorry we placed mother in this position," he heard her say as if talking more to herself than he.
"In what position, Orlean?"
"In keeping this a secret."
"From your father, you mean?" said he, frowning.
"Yes."
"Well, Orlean, I have tried to be a husband to you."