so little," she
began, and her voice had an ineffable sadness, "I likes to be home
when he come."

"But you _can_ be at home when he comes," Mary Louise explained with a
patience which she far from felt. "You can get off directly dishes are
done--seven o'clock every evening, I'm sure."

"I know," responded Zenie, still doubting. "But Zeke, he gone at
night. Mos' eve' night. He home in de day, mos' de day."

It ended by Mary Louise's offering and Zenie's accepting ten dollars a
week, and with a promise of starting in on the following Monday. Mary
Louise descended the cabin steps with the hollow pomp of one who has
bought his victory too dearly. Zenie, from the steps, called cheerily:
"Mis' Ma'y Louise. You bring me some goods fuh a dress? Sometime when
you come up ag'in?"

Mary Louise paused at the gate and speculated on the humble creature
on whom she had wreaked her will. "I guess I might, Zenie. What kind
do you want?"

Zenie beamed. "Oh, mos' any kin'. Whateveh you think is pritty. I pay
you fo' it."

Mary Louise promised and departed. She walked home very thoughtfully.
Ten dollars a week! Ten dollars just to get the cooking done! She had
had her eyes fixed very clearly indeed on the coveted goal to brush
aside such an expensive obstacle.

That afternoon, as she busied herself with little chores about the
house--she was sweeping the side porch at the time--she chanced to
look up and saw Joe Hooper driving by in a low-swung phaeton behind a
sleepy old horse. Beside him sat Mr. Mosby, very prim and very erect,
and Joe's arm lay along the back of the seat behind him. The street
was rather shady and it was quite a distance from where she was to
where he was passing. But somehow it seemed to her that there was a
singularly cheerful, quite happy expression on his face as he lolled
back against the cushion. And he did not look in as he passed.

CHAPTER VII

Two weeks passed. Joe felt himself gradually slipping into an abyss of
resignation. Nearer and nearer came June. Less and less he seemed to
care. He took interest in nothing. He ate and slept and plodded. He
ate and slept and plodded as though all that life consisted of was
eating and sleeping and plodding. Most of us have seen in some quiet
fence corner, just behind the barn, under some old tree with gnarled
trunk and droopy branches, an old gray horse, with eyes closed, muzzle
resting on the top rail, one hind leg slightly bent and propped by the
t