"Are you a seeker, John Westerfelt?" she asked, with a sneer.
"No, I am not." He tried to draw his arm away, but her bony fingers clutched and held it.
"They say the's a chance fer all to wipe out sins," she went on, "but I have my doubts 'bout you. You know whar you'll land. You kin mighty nigh feel the hot now, I reckon."
He caught her wrist and tore his arm from her grasp.
"Leave me alone!" he cried; then he dropped her wrist and added: "For Heaven sake don't—don't devil me to death; you make me forget you are a woman and not a beast—a snake! My God, let me alone!"
His angry tone had drawn the attention of a few of the bystanders. A tall, lank countryman, standing near Westerfelt, turned on him.
"Be ashamed o' yorese'f, young man," he said; "ef you don't want to be prayed fer you don't have to, but don't cut up any o' yore shines with these Christian women who are tryin' to do good."
"You don't know what you are talking about," replied Westerfelt, and he turned away quickly, and went across the cleared space to his horse and buggy. Jake, who was lying on the ground with some other negroes, ran forward and unfastened his horse, and gave him the reins.
"Want me to go back wid yer, Marse John?" he asked.
"No," answered Westerfelt, and he drove rapidly homeward. Reaching the stable, he put up his horse, and went to the room over the office. He sat down, took up an old newspaper, and tried to read it, but there seemed to be something in the paling light on the bare fields outside and the stillness of the empty building that oppressed him. He rose and looked out of the window. Not a soul was in sight. The store and the bar, with their closed shutters, looked as if they had not been opened for a century. A brindled cow stood in the middle of the street, jangling a discordant bell, and lowing dolefully. He rose, went down-stairs, walked aimlessly about in the stable, and then went up the street towards Bradley's. He wondered if Harriet had returned, but as he passed the hotel he had not the courage to look in.