But at the supper table, a cup clattered against a saucer as she handed them, Susan saw; the food on her plate was untouched, jealous black eyes from the half-opened pantry door watched--she was white, her gray eyes were dark and troubled--jealous eyes of an old bent darkey who would have shut every trouble from her, heeded, and keenly enough contrasted them with the brilliant laughing face she had looked into when she opened the door in the dusk of the afternoon. There had been one visitor since then; she knew at whose door to lay the blame. When Frances came into the kitchen an hour later with a great pretence of gayety the old woman read her through and through. "Susan, just think," she cried, "I'm going away on an early train to-morrow!" "'Fore Gawd!" said Susan to herself, "it's wuss than I thought." "You'll give me an early breakfast?" coaxingly. "Think I'm gwine let yuh go widout anything ter eat," snapped Susan, cross in her anxiety. "Whar yuh gwine?" "Down to Cousin Tom's; he says he wants me to come; he wrote to father to-day." Frances was making powerful use of a casual invitation at the end of a business note. "Father has just told me. I'm going to-morrow. It's the very time, the weather is lovely. We'll gather walnuts and--and persimmons." The constrained manner had no effect in fooling Susan. "Plenty walnuts up de road," she grumbled, "and as for 'simmons, '_simmons_! I don't see nuthin' else in de fence corners anywhars, myself." "Oh, Susan, it isn't that," half tearfully. "I want to go." "Em--hm! So I thought, wants to go!" Susan opened the stove door and flung in a piece of wood--she could never be persuaded to cook with coal--and banged the door wrathfully. "What yo' pa gwine do widout you? How's I gwine get erlong?" "You will get along all right. You know a lot more about housekeeping than I do. What I know you taught me." This was one of Susan's prides--her own skill and her ready pupil's. "How's dat young man foreber trapsin' aroun' hyar gwine git erlong?" "Who?" asked the girl faintly. "Who? Who dat I open de do' for dis ebenin', I wants ter know?" Frances drooped. A tide of red swept her face from chin to forehead. "Dat's it, dog-gone him!" said Susan, in her jealous old heart. The young girl straightened herself proudly and looked her tormentor straight in the eye. "He's never been 'trapsing,' as you call it," she said with cold haughtiness, "and there'll be neither getting along with or without him as far as I am concerned." She turned and walked out of the room, head high, shoulders straight; and she banged the door a trifle behind her. "Hi--yi!" chuckled Susan, delighted, "dat's de stuff! Aint gwine git erlong wid or widout him! Aint no dy-away-ed-ness 'bout dat!"