lue; below, all was deathly motionless, save when a clotted cake of red
clay let go, sliding greasily into the current. At dawn the sun struck
the half-stunned world insensible once more; no birds stirred even at
sunset; all the little creatures of the field seemed dead; her kitten
panted in its slumbers.

Every night the river fog shrouded the land, wetting the parched leaves;
dew drummed on the rotting porch like the steady patter of
picket-firing; the widow bird's distracted mourning filled the silence;
the kitten crept to its food, ate indifferently, then, settling on the
Messenger's knees, stared, round-eyed, at the dark. But always at dawn
the sun burned off the mist, rising in stupefying splendor; the oily
river glided on; not a leaf moved, not a creature. And the kitten slept
on the porch, heedless of inviting grass stems whisked for her and the
ball of silk rolled past her in temptation.

Half lying there, propped against a tree trunk in the heated shade,
cotton bodice open, sleeves rolled to the shoulders, the Special
Messenger mended her linen with languid fingers. Perspiration powdered
her silky skin from brow to breast, from finger to elbow, shimmering
like dew when she moved. Her dark hair fell, unbound; glossy tendrils of
it curled on her shoulders, framing a face in which nothing as yet had
extinguished the soft loveliness of youth.

At times she talked to the kitten under her breath; sometimes hummed an
old song. Memories kept her busy, too, at moments quenching the
brightness of her eyes, at moments twitching the edges of her vivid lips
till the dreamy smile transfigured her.

But always quietly alert, her eyes scanned land and river, the bank
opposite, the open fields behind her. Once, certain of a second's
safety, she relaxed with a sigh, stretching out full length on the
grass; and, under the edge of her cotton skirt, the metal of a revolver
glimmered for an instant, strapped in its holster below her right knee.

The evening of the fourth day was cooler; the kitten hoisted its tail
for the first time in their acquaintance, and betrayed a feeble interest
in the flight of a white dusk-moth that came hovering around the porch
vines.

"Pussy," said the Messenger, "there's bacon in that well pit; I am going
to make a fire and fry some."

The kitten mewed faintly.

"I thought you'd approve, dear. Cold food is bad in hot weather; and
we'll fry a little cornmeal, too. Shall we?"

The kitten on it