“Thank you—why, yes—I am rather—But—” Ruth turned to the door. She was thinking of her companion, who was still out in the storm that was driving against the house.
“Yes, to be sho’ you is. I’ll shet de do’.” The old negress moved to push it closer to.
“No, don’t!” cried Ruth. “He is out there.”
“Who? Don’t you go out dyah, Mistis.”
She restrained Ruth, who was about to go out again. But the door was pushed open from the outside, and Steve, dripping wet, with a pile of broken pieces of old rails in his arms and Ruth’s saddle in his hand, came in.
“Marse Steve! My chile! Fo de L—d!” exclaimed the old woman. “Ain’t you mighty wet?” She had left Ruth, and was feeling Steve’s arms and back.
“Wet? No, I’m as dry as a bone,” laughed Steve. “Here—make up a good fire.” He threw the wood on the hearth and began to pile it on the fire, which had been almost extinguished by the rain that came down the big chimney. “Dry that young lady. I’ve got to go out!” He turned to the door again.
“No—please! You must not go out!” cried Ruth, taking a step toward him.
“I have to go to see after the horses. I must fasten them.”
“Please don’t. They are all right. I don’t want you to go!” She faced him boldly. “Please don’t, for my sake!” she pleaded.