"And have they left town?" John asked, with strange calmness.
"Oh yes, sir! Dey tuck de twelve-ten train."
"That will do." John motioned for him to go. "I understand."
The negro turned his horse around and started back to town. John stood stock-still, his eyes on the cab disappearing in the gloom. He had stood that way for several minutes when a small hand was slipped into his from behind, and, looking around, he saw the soiled face and matted hair of Dora Boyles.
"Brother John," she faltered, "has Tilly left you—really—really left you?"
He dropped her hand and shoved her from him. "Go home!" he cried. "Go home, and don't bother me!"
She fell back a yard or so and stood staring at him. "I won't go till you tell me," she said, stubbornly. "I started over here this morning to show Tilly my doll and get her to help me dress it. I saw that crazy-looking old man come in a cab and take her and her trunk away. She was white—oh, she was as white as a sheet, and so pitiful-looking!"
"Go home, I tell you! Go home!" John gulped and snarled like a man goaded at once by grief and physical pain. "Go home, I tell you! Leave me alone!"
"I suppose that means she has left," the child reasoned aloud. "Well, brother John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, because I liked her awfully well. But I'm not surprised. Aunt Jane told your ma yesterday—and it made her mad. My! didn't the old girl rip and snort? Aunt Jane told her this thing would happen sooner or later. She said no woman alive could stay cooped up in a little box like this very long and not have a single soul go near her, and you off all day."
John laid his hand roughly on the child's shoulder and smothered an oath of fury. "You go home!" he panted. "If you don't, I'll—"