Zeke was slowly backing the car preparatory to turning around.

"I'm back home now, myself," she called and reddened at once at her
unnecessary confidence. What did he care where she was? But as they
turned slowly in the narrow road she added, "Come and see me," and
waved to him and wondered if he would.

It was growing dusk as they came again to Bloomfield and a chill was
settling down. The lights in the windows glowed cheerily against the
purple twilight and in one kitchen someone was frying potato cakes.
The odour was symbolical of hot suppers, and summer's passing, and
home, and warmth, and cheer.

She tipped Zeke a quarter even before he lugged her trunk through the
kitchen door, and then she went briskly in.

"Supper ready, Zenie?" she called.

Zenie turned slowly around and looked at her from the biscuit board.
She smiled wearily. "No'm. Not jes' yet it ain'. Terectly."

Mary Louise looked at her watch. It was a quarter past six. She came
to a sudden decision.

"Zenie," she said.

Zenie looked up hopefully.

"I guess we'll not be needing you any more after this week."

A slow, incredulous look met her. "Yas'm?"

"You can go back and look after that husband of yours."

"Yas'm? He gettin' erlong all right."

"I don't know, Zenie. You never can tell," Mary Louise went on,
maliciously enjoying the havoc she was spreading. "I'll pay you for
the week. You can leave whenever you want to. But let's have supper
right away." And she walked resolutely through the kitchen into a
darkened house, burning her bridges behind her.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was seven o'clock on Main Street. A very faint glow still lingered
in the western sky and above it cool points of stars pricked a
gray-blue curtain. Over to the left the moon was peeping above a
gambrel roof and the near side was steely blue up to the shadow of the
purple chimney. Joe walked along shuffling with his feet in the little
hollows of dry leaves. They crunched cheerily, sending up a faint, dry
fragrance. Up ahead was a dying fire with only here and there a tiny
flame tongue; the rest, a black and smoking crust underlaid with dull
embers. The smoke that curled upward from the fire was pale blue-gray
and mixed with tiny dust particles, and it hung in thin motionless
strata or came curling in feathery wisps almost invisible in the
shadow but heavy laden with magic scent. Up slid the moon, till Main
Street was a phantom cloister, the maple boles huge