beast's huge belly. This was Saturday, the day to go to town for the week's rations. The road was long and the wagon heavy. He would put some extra ears in the trough.

"Take time and chaw, old man. Git some meat on you' ribs. You' Missus hates to ride behind a pack o' bones," he said gently as he patted the mule's bony sides.

The pig grunted impatiently and peeped at him between the cracks of the rail pen. Ut laughed at such greediness, but he chided him in a whisper, "Don' squeal so loud, son; you'll wake Harpa. Eat you' breakfast. Fatten all you can. Make us a whole tub full o'lard by Christmas."

Ut was glad for the day. Every sound was good against the stillness-the cock's proudful crowing, the hens' proudful clucking as they woke up the biddies, the moaning of the wind through the pines.

Smoke and sparks were rushing up out of the cabin chimney, for Mocky had come. She had the fish fried, the bread baked, the coffee boiled, the table set and the kettle on the hearth singing and breathing out a cloud of steam over the row of flat-irons heating by the fire's red blaze. But Harpa was not up and dressed yet.

With a pile of sprinkled clothes rolled tight to hold the moisture, on a chair beside her, Mocky bent over the ironing-board, humming a tune and running a hot iron swiftly, deftly, over the starched bosom of Ut's white Sunday shirt. Drops of sweat ran down her shiny fat face and fell with tiny hissing pats on the iron. When she looked up to say good morning to Ut, her thick mouth smiled a little but her eyes

were full of sulky darkness. "Breakfast sho' smells good, Mocky," Ut praised.

"Harpa's de lazies', triflines' woman I ever seen in my life," Mocky answered.

"Oh no, Mocky. Harpa ain' dat. She jus' don' like to wake up soon. Dat's all. You women-folks sho' is hard on one another, enty Joe?" Ut tried to laugh good-naturedly as he said this, although Mocky's brazen talk about Harpa did sting him.

"Le's eat," Joe suggested. "I'm hongry."

"We may as well. Harpa's mos' ready anyhow."

The three of them sat down and had their pans helped when Harpa came out of the shed-room; but instead of sitting down with them she stood by the chair and shook her head, "I can' stan' de hotness in dis room, Ut. It would cook a egg. Dat fish smells so sickenin', too. I'm gwine to de spring an' git me a cool drink o' water."

Ut got to his feet, with his mouth full of food, "I'll go wid you, Honey," he mumbled. But Joe dropped his spoon with a click in his pan, and pushed back his chair, "You set down, Ut, and finish you' breakfast. I'll go wid Harpa. I ain' in no hurry to eat. You set down."

Joe took an empty water-bucket off the shelf and followed Harpa out into the yard. It was just as well. A walk in the fresh air would do Harpa good, for the room was too hot and steamy for comfort. Ut helped himself to another piece of fish, then passed the pan to Mocky.

"Take another piece, Mocky. Dis fish is sweet as can be," he said.

Mocky's eyes were two hard black beads, and her mouth was twisted into an ugly pout.

"How come you's such a fool dese days, Ut. You used to have good sense."

Ut could scarcely believe his ears. What did Mocky mean?

"I mean you mus' be blind as a bat. Dat's Dat's what I mean,' she she declared bitterly.

All of a sudden Ut knew what Mocky meant. She was intimating an ugly thing about Harpa and Joe. She was jealous of Harpa. She always had been jealous of any girl he liked, and now she wanted him to believe a filthy lie about his wife. Hot blood made a red glow before his eyes, and he seized Mocky's arm in a grip too tight to be loosened. "Listen, Mocky,"-blind fury almost strangled him-"if you crack you' teeth about Harpa, I'll kill you. I ought to choke you' tongue out right dis minute. You mean, lyin' hussy-"

"Choke! Go on an' choke. Cuss me much as you want to but dat ain' gwine change Harpa none." Mocky shook all over.

"Gal, if you call Harpa's name one more time I'll wring you' neck same as a chicken-" Ut felt his fingers tightening on Mocky's flesh, but she did not move a muscle. She knew him too well not to yield now. She had to shut her mouth.

The cabin was still as a grave except for the crackling fire. Two bright tears hung in Mocky's eyes, and her lips shook with unspoken words. Then the door-step creaked sharply, and two black shadows fell across the floor. There they lay side by side still and stiff as the head

19

stones of two graves. Joe and Harpa had come back-were listeningthey may have heard every word.

Ut's head was dizzy, his heart sick, his blood full of fever. He staggered out past them into the yard, down the path to the river where he fell prone on the moist bank. There he lay, his face downward on his crossed arms, the hot sun beating on his back, while poisoned thoughts raced through his brain.

Mocky was like all the rest of those black Quarter women-mean, jealous, vain; unhappy, unless they were strewing somebody's name about, dragging it in the dirt. None of them had ever liked Harpa; now they'd be glad to spread a filthy tale about her. Certainly Harpa liked Joe, and Joe liked Harpa too, even if he had never praised her once in his life; but if Mocky ever said one ugly word about them again he'd kill her as quickly as he'd kill a poison snake that threatened them. Mocky hated to see him lawfully married to Harpa and living in a decent way, making something of himself. He knew she would have taken him and not cared one bit whether the preacher ever read out of the Book and prayed over them or not. Mocky was black, her ways and her heart were black. She would be glad to tear down all he had worked and striven to build up. He wouldn't let her. He'd go send her home, make her get out of his house, right now.

Before he got half way up the hill, he met Harpa coming to call him to dinner. Her face and dress were wet with sweat, and her narrow brows were drawn together with a black frown.

away from him, so out of his reach. All his life those mysterious hills over the river yonder had stood for better things than anything he had ever known on earth, as if they were a part of Heaven itself. Yes, Harpa was like them.

He went and stood by her trying to think of some suitable word to say. Poor little tired Harpa, mending and mending, and mending, working for him, placing the small industrious stitches side by side. He bent over and kissed the back of her slender neck, then gave one little hand a gentle pat; but the needle it held pricked him

"Call you? How'd I know whe' you was?"

They walked on without speaking until Harpa added sorrowfully, “I was countin' on gwine to town wid you dis evenin', an' now I'm too wore-out. I can' go."

"De ride would do you good." "Good! Ridin' in dat old rough ramshackle wagon would'n do nobody good. My bones would sure be shook to pieces. My back's mos' broke now."

Poor little Harpa, so thin and frail, and sometimes so strangely sad. While Ut ate the dinner she had cooked for him, Harpa sat down by the window so that the light from the overcast sky could fall on the faded, freshly washed and ironed overalls which she had started to mend stitch by stitch.

Her eyes lifted from her sewing now and then to rest on the faint blue hills far across the river swamp. She and those hills were in some way alike now; both so softly curved, so tender and lovely, both so far

"You better hurry an' go on to town, Ut. I see a cloud a-risin' yonder over the river."

He followed the look her bluegreen eyes flashed up at the sky, where in truth, ragged clouds were piling. She was right. He must be going.

"I hate so bad to leave you by you'self, Harpa."

"Sounder'll be here wid me." "I'll hurry back quick as I can, Honey. What must I fetch you from town?"

"I don' want nuttin."
"Nuttin?"

"Not nuttin."

Harpa was out of sorts, downhearted for truth; but he would fetch something for her. Maybe he could find her a string of red glass beads to wear with her pretty red stockings. They'd be beautiful around her slim neck, against her warm yellow skin.

"Good-by, Harpa."
"Good-by, Ut."

"Don' git lonesome, Honey."

The mule was slow and the cloud and night both caught Ut on the way home. The steady rain cut clear through his clothes and reached his skin, cold and wet. He went by the Quarters to give his mother the pound of sugar he had bought for her to make sweetened bread; since Harpa's beads had cost so much he had not had enough money left for a head-kerchief.

She plead with him to stop long enough to dry his clothes, but he wouldn't, for Harpa was by herself except for Sounder. When he jerked up the rope lines and urged the mule to hurry, the foolish old beast, remembering his old home at the Quarters would not budge. Ut bawled at him sternly, then doubled back a rope line and gave him some loud wallops; but the tough-mouthed hard-headed old creature lifted his head, and stretching out his neck gave a long mournful "hee-hee-a haw-haw-haw," as if sorrow were breaking his heart. Instead of moving he took one unwilling step forward, then he stumbled and almost

fell, for his forefoot had picked up a nail. A mean, ugly, crooked, rusty nail which had dug through his hoof clear down to the bone.

Those old Quarter houses were always dropping rusty nails out of their rotten sides, and now one had crippled the mule's foot and he could not walk another step. Ut would have to leave the wagon and rations with his mother, and walk home to Harpa.

A wet gray moon gave out a poor dim light as he took a short cut through the woods; but he knew the way well, and in a little while he was climbing the hill through the pattering rain to the solid black blur which was home. He thought Harpa would have had a bright fire burning, and be standing in the door watching for him; but the cabin was dark and still. She must have gotten tired and gone to sleep.

That was good. He would surprise her. He would tiptoe in and lay the beautiful red glass beads in her hand. They would wake her. Precious little Harpa. When Sounder came sniffling and whining to meet him, Ut hushed him with a pat. Sounder must be quiet so Harpa would not wake until the time came.

The rain sang gaily as it fell off the cabin roof and splashed down off the eaves. But the bed and the chairs in the big room were empty. Harpa must be asleep in the shedroom. A loose board squeaked sharply under Ut's weight, and Harpa cried out of the blackness in the shed-room, "Great Gawd! What is dat?"

The pitiful terror in her voice made Ut smile. But before he could tell her it was he, Ut, her own hus

band, Joe was saying with a laugh, "Don' be so scary, gal. Po' ole Ut ain' half-way home, not yet."

Ut's horrified ears seized the whispered words and he tried to yell; but his frozen tongue could make no sound. His ears began roaring like the river in a flood. He could not think for its noise. But through the clear darkness his eyes saw his gun standing in the corner. It would tell them in one word that he was home. Joe must have heard the trigger click, for he struck a match. Then he leaped up, dropping it right in the folds of Harpa's flowered dress, which lay crumpled and empty on the foot of the bed.

"Ut-you fool-put down dat gun!" Joe shouted between chattering teeth. But the gun spoke one loud short word that answered him forever.

The weak flame of the match sputtered and threatened to die, then it seized avidly on the thin cotton cloth, flaring up bright.

Harpa slid to the floor, shivering, tottering, on her bare feet-then she fell on her knees. "Ut-for Christ's sake-Ut!" she quavered. But some devil inside Ut made him laugh. He told her to pray to her maker, and not to him now.

Harpa took in one long gasping breath then let it out in a thin wild shriek, "Oh-h-ee-!" She tried to wrench the gun from his hands, but he gave her a hard backward shove toward the bed.

Ut was not certain what happened. The gun must have aimed at her and fired before he let it fall; for red blood, red flesh, hid her breast.

Burning cloth made a bitter stench. The whole room was afire; bed,

walls, floor-all fed the growing flames as they sputtered and roared up toward the ceiling.

He must go. But go where? His old lame mule had a stall, but he had no place in the world now.

Looking back once more he saw Harpa's two little empty shoes standing bravely side by side on the floor. Slamming the door hard behind him, he rushed out of the cabin into the yard where red shadows flew about thick in the air. They ran under his feet, tripping him, blinding him; red flames stuck thin long fingers through the cracks of the cabin, pointing at him, reaching for him, making him stumble. Before he knew what he was about, he had fallen on his knees and prayers were slipping through his lips.

"Do, Jesus-master-look down on dis poor meeked man-I'm done ruint-ruint—”

A sheet of fire lifted the cabin roof, sparks flew clear up to the sky. "Lawd, Jesus, please, suh, have mussy on me—"

A light touch fell on Ut's throat; then another and another, inch by inch. He held his breath to be certain it was there; then a long cold shudder shook him. Praying would do no good now. His time had come. A measuring-worm was marking the size of his neck; it had already crawled up his back and measured his length for its master, Death. The gallows would hang him, the earth would take his body, and his lost soul would fly on and on until Satan caught it and put it in Hell.

He had stripped himself bare. He had nothing left but a rope-a shroud, and a new cold grave.