“Oh, I wouldn't think of such a thing!” Hillhouse stroked a sort of glowing resignation into his chin, upon which a two-days beard had made a ragged appearance. “I've been awfully miserable, Sister Porter, but this talk with you has raised my hopes.” Mrs. Porter rose with a faint smile. “Now, you go home and write another good sermon like that last one. I watched Cynthia out of the corner of my eye all through it. That idea of its being our duty to bear our burdens cheerfully—no matter how heavy they are—seemed to do her a lot of good.” The color came into Hillhouse's thin face, and his eyes shone. “The sermon I have in mind for next Sunday is on the same general line,” he said. “I'm glad she listened. I was talking straight at her, Sister Porter. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I've been unable to think of anything but her since—since Floyd disappeared.”
“You are a good man, Brother Hillhouse”—Mrs. Porter was giving him her hand—“and somehow I feel like you will get all you want, in due time, remember—in due time.”
“God bless you, sister,” Hillhouse said, earnestly, and, pressing the old woman's hand, he turned away.
XXX
WHEN Cynthia heard the gate close behind the preacher, and from the window of her room had seen him striding away, she put a shawl over her shoulder and started out.
“Where on earth are you going?” her mother asked from the end of the porch, where she stood among the honeysuckle vines.
“I want to run across to Mrs. Baker's, just a minute,” Cynthia said. “I won't be long. I'll come right back.”
“I'd think you'd be afraid to do that,” her mother protested, “with so many stray negroes about. Besides, it's the Bakers' bedtime. Can't you wait till to-morrow?”