sivity of regard into wild activity of passion. He could do it.
That tide of crimson, a vague terror and awakening in the gray eyes, as
they met his gaze on re-opening to consciousness, had shown him a tiny
cleft which his hand might broaden, until it should flood their two
lives with the light of love.

The echo of the footsteps deepened, merged into actual sound, drew
nearer. Thorne, in the deep obscurity of the trees, listened, moving
near to the dusky, trunk of an old magnolia; he was in no mood for
passing civilities, and in this friendly country all wayfarers
exchanged greetings. In the sound of the advancing steps, he could
distinguish an unmistakable shuffle which proclaimed race--two negroes
returning from the little village, beyond Shirley, whither they had
gone to make Christmas purchases. They walked by the light of a
flaring pine knot, which was encouraged to burn by being swung around
violently from time to time; it lighted the men's dark faces, and
reflected itself in intermittent flashes on the sides of a bright tin
bucket which the younger man carried, but it intensified the gloom
around them. Both had on their backs bags filled with lumpy things,
like bundles. They were talking cheerfully, and the sound of their
rough voices and guttural laughter reached Thorne before the men
themselves came abreast of his position. The negro with the bucket was
relating an anecdote. Thorne caught part of it.

"Yes, sar," he was saying, "dat was de fust ov it. Mars Jim, he clumb
right spang up to de tip-top de tree, an' de ice was cracklin', an'
slippin', an' rattlin' down like broke up lamp chimblys. De little
gals was 'pon de groun' watchin' him, an' hollerin' an' wringin' deir
han's. I was loadin' de ox-cart wid pine kindlin's back in de woods,
an' when I hearn de chil'en hollerin', I came runnin' to see what was
de matter wid 'em."

"What he clumb arter?" questioned the other negro; "hit's mighty
dangersome gittin' up trees when dey got sleet 'pon 'em."

"Mighty dangersome," acquiesced the narrator, "dat's what I 'lowed ter
myse'f when I seed him. He was arter a lump o' dat green truck wid
white berries 'pon it--mizzletoe, dey calls its name. When I got dar,
he was comin' down de tree holdin' it by de stem wid he teef. He
wouldn't fling it down, kase he's feard he'd spile de berries. Time he
totch de groun' good, Miss Grace, she hauled off, she did, an' smacked
his jaws ez hard ez she could stave