impressive, in Delphy's lap. "Fine
boy, eh, Delphy?" he inquired proudly.

"Dat 'tis, suh," responded Delphy heartily, "an' he's des de spit er you
dis we'y minit."

The following morning Dudley went to Washington for several days, and
Eugenia was left with Miss Chris and the child. Lottie and the little
girls were with Bernard, who was dragging to a tedious end in Florida,
where he had been ordered as a last resource. Poor, pretty, ineffectual
Lottie had succumbed to the unrelenting pressure of her duty. She had
sacrificed herself from sheer lack of the force necessary to withstand
fate.

During Dudley's absence Eugenia gave herself up to as much of the baby
as Delphy grudgingly allowed her, sewing, in the long intervals, on tiny
slips as delicate as cobwebs. Even this occupation was not wholly a
peaceful one. "Des wait twel he begin ter crawl, en' den whar'l dose
spider webs be?" propounded Delphy in the afternoon of the third day.
"Dey'll be in de ash-ba'r'l er at de back er de fireplace, en dat's whar
dey b'long. Marse Dudley ain' never wo' no sech trash ner is you
yo'se'f."

Eugenia did not respond. She seated herself beside the window, and with
one eye on her child and one on her work sewed silently, her white hands
gleaming amid the laces in her lap. The training of her slave-holding
ancestors was strong upon her, and she regarded Delphy's liberty of
speech as an inherent right of her position. The Battle servants had
always spoken their minds to their mistresses in a manner which caused
them to become hopeless failures when they hired themselves into strange
families, where the devotion of their lives could not be offered in
extenuation of the freedom of their tongues.

So when Eugenia spoke, after a placid pause, it was merely to suggest
that the baby's head was hanging too far over Delphy's knee. "That can't
be healthful, Delphy," she said, half timidly. Delphy grunted and
adjusted matters with a protest. "Hit's de way yourn done hung en Miss
Meely's done hung befo' you," she muttered. Eugenia turned to the window
and looked out upon the back yard, where the horse-chestnut tree was a
mass of bloom, delicate as a cloud. In the beds below, roses were out in
red and white, and against the gray wall of the stable at the end of the
brick walk purple flags were flaunting in the shadow. Across the city,
beyond the tin roofs and the chimney-pots, the sun was going down in a
mist as sheer as gauze, and the surrou