. En
ef ever once som'n tremenjus happen to Marse Wes, dat debbil'll be
cas' out. But hit's got to be stronger en mo' pow'ful dan he is. Not
'ligion, fer 'ligion goes f'm de outside in. Som'n got to come from
inside Marse Wes out befo' dat ole debbil is laid."

This was meagre comfort, and Annie did not follow the primitive
psychology of it. She only knew that into her happiness there had come
again the darkening of a fear, fear that was to be her devil, no less
terrible because his presence was for the most part veiled.

But again she steeled her courage. "I won't let him spoil everything;
I won't let him make me afraid of him," she vowed, seeing Wes in his
silent mood that night. "I won't be afraid of him. I wish I could cut
that old vein out of his forehead. I hate it--it's just as if it was
the thing that starts him. Never seems as if it was part of the real
Wes, my Wes."

In the depths of the woods, on Sunday, she stood by while he dug up
the wild clematis--stood so he could not see her lips quiver--and she
put her clenched hands behind her for fear they, too, would betray
her.

"Wes," she asked, "what made you get so mad last Thursday and beat old
Pomp so?"

He turned toward her in genuine surprise.

"I wasn't mad; not much, that is. And all I laid on Pomp's tough old
hide couldn't hurt him. He's as mean as a mule, that old scoundrel.
Gets me riled every once in a while."

"I wish you wouldn't ever do it again. It scared me almost to death."

"Scared you!" he laughed. "Oh, Annie, you little silly--you aren't
scared of me. Now don't let on you are. What you doing--trying to kid
me? There, ain't that a splendid plant? I believe I'll take back a
couple shovelfuls this rich wood earth to put in under it. It'll never
know it's not at home."

"Yes, but, Wes--I wish you'd promise me something."

"Promise you anything."

"Then--promise me not to get mad and beat the horses any more or
holler at Unc' Zenas. I don't like it."

"Annie, you little simp--what's the matter with you? A fellow's got to
let off steam once in a while, and if you'd been pestered like I have
with Unc' Zenas's ornery trifling spells and old Pomp's general
cussedness, you'd wonder that I don't get mad and stay mad every
minute. Don't let's talk any more about it. Say, look there--there's a
scarlet tanager! Ain't it pretty? Shyest bird there is, but up here in
the woods there's a couple pairs 'most every year. Pull that old
newspaper up