When he came back to work the day after his visit to Susan’s cook shop, he was conscious of something having happened which might shake this feeling of trust; and the burdening thought troubled him sorely. Try as he would, he was unable to free himself of the haunting fact or invent a reasonable excuse to explain his somber mood, which he was certain would not escape Mr. Amos’s attention. Song, at all times an easy means for expressing the gladness or turbulence of his emotional soul, now deserted him completely. And when he tried to pray, his mind went groping about in a wilderness of mist and fog, unable to find a word or thought that would bring him any spiritual relief. To elude Mr. Amos was out of the question; because it was an understood custom, that Felo must sit across the room and talk while Mr. Amos ate; giving a detailed account of his week-end trip across the river, with the doings and sayings of his colored friends, most of whom Mr. Amos knew from early childhood. It was always a delightful conference, and Mr. Amos encouraged it with genuine interest. A quiet evening spent at home alone with Felo, he declared, was sure to be an evening of picturesque thought and spontaneous, refreshing entertainment. Because humble Felo had more to offer in the way of colorful, living literature, than one could ever expect to find at the colorless teas and elaborate dinner parties of many pseudo-literary white friends. As Mr. Amos sat down to eat, Felo took his accustomed chair on the opposite side of the room near the door leading to the kitchen, where he would be in readiness during the progress of the meal. He sat quietly, his gaze fixed on the floor rug, staring into infinitude; his arms hanging aimlessly by the sides of his chair. In the center of the table was a shallow dark green bowl filled with dainty, pink wild mimosa blossoms; the unusual color combination together with the acquisition of the rare little flowers, causing Mr. Amos to wonder in silent admiration. After a while he said to Felo: “Were did you get the lovely ‘touch-me-nots,’ so late in the season?” “Yonder in Gritny,” came the reply; slow and apathetic. “From your mother’s garden?” “Ma ain’ got no time to play wid no garden; wid all dem chillun an’ dat hog she got to look to.” “Then I suppose you bought them?” Mr. Amos persisted. “Who goin’ buy tetch-me-not flow’rs, w’en dey got ’um growin’ wil’ like grass, all up an’ down de railroad track?” “Well,” said Mr. Amos, “wherever they came from, they’re very lovely; and I suppose I must thank you for bringing them to me.” Felo made no reply, but sat looking at the floor vacantly. His silence was unusual and Mr. Amos wondered at it. Felo was always ready for conversation. Was there anything the matter, Mr. Amos asked him. After a slight hesitation, he answered in a subdued tone: “Man, eat yo’ li’l foods, an’ don’ worry ’bout me.” Wondering at the polite indifference, Mr. Amos asked: