Her father's appearance at this moment served to break the silent embarrassment between them, the embarrassment that had come out of what she had said.
They settled with regards to his boarding with them, and a few minutes later he took his leave. As he was passing out, their eyes met. Never had they appeared so deep; never before so soft. But in the same he saw again that which he had seen before and as yet could not understand.
CHAPTER XIV
THE ADMINISTRATING ANGEL
NEVER before since Jean Baptiste had come West and staked his lot and future there, doing his part toward the building of that little empire out there in the hollow of God's hand, had he worked so hard as he did in the days that followed that summer. When the rains for a time ceased and the warm, porous soil had dried sufficiently to permit a return to the fields, from early morn until the sun had disappeared in the west late afternoons, did he labor. Observation with him seemed to be inherent. Ever since he had played as a boy back in old Illinois he had been deeply sensitive with regards to his race. To him, notwithstanding the fact that he realized that less than fifty years had passed since freedom, they appeared—even considering their adverse circumstances—to progress rather slowly. He had not as yet come fully to appreciate and understand why they remained always so poor; always the serf; always in the position to gain so little—but withal to suffer so much! Oh, the anguish it had so often given him!
His being in the West had come of an ulterior purpose. It has been stated that he was a keen observer. While so he had cultivated also the faculty of determination. By now it had became a sort of habit, a sort of second nature as it were. But there were certain things he could not seem to get away from. For instance: It seemed to him that the most difficult task he had ever encountered was to convince the average colored man that the Negro race could ever be anything. In after years he understood more fully why this was—but we deal with the present; those days when Jean Baptiste with a great ambition was struggling to "do his bit" in the development of the country of our story. He struggled with these problems at times until he became fatigued; not knowing that he could never understand until the time came for him to.
When he dined late one afternoon and found himself alone with Agnes, he spoke of being tired.
"You work too hard, Jean," she said, kindly.
"Perhaps so," he admitted. "And, still, the way I choose to see that is, that I'll not know the difference this time next year."