He drifted into revery. Thoughts came so out of harmony with this line of reasoning that he could only dismiss them as vagaries. Was sleep returning? No, he laid wide awake, frowning with the pain of his wound. Yet he must have drowsed at last, for when suddenly he saw his wife standing, draped in some dark wrapping, hearkening at one of the open windows, the moon was sinking. He sat up and heard faintly, far afield, the voices of Leviticus, Virginia, Willis, Trudie, and Johanna, singing one of the wild, absurd, and yet passionately significant hymns of the Negro Christian worship. Distance drowned the words, but an earlier familiarity supplied them to the grossly syncopated measures of the tune which, soft and clear, stole in at the open window: "Rise in dat mawnin', an' rise in dat mawnin', Rise in dat mawnin', an' fall upon yo' knees. Bow low, an' a-bow low, an' a-bow low a little bit longah, Bow low, an' a-bow low; sich a conquerin' king!" The eyes of wife and husband met in a long gaze. "They're coming this way," he faltered. She slowly shook her head. "My love----" But she motioned for silence and said, solemnly: "They're leaving us." "They're wrong!" he murmured in grieved indignation. "Oh, who is right?" she sadly asked. "They shall not treat us so!" exclaimed he. He would have sprung to his feet, but she turned upon him suddenly, uplifting her hand, and with a ring in her voice that made the walls of the chamber ring back, cried, "No, no! Let them go! They were mine when they were property, and they are mine now! Let them go!" The singing ceased. The child in the next room had not stirred. The dumfounded husband sat motionless under pretence of listening. His wife made a despairing gesture. He motioned to hearken a moment more; but no human sound sent a faintest ripple across the breathless air; the earth was as silent as the stars. Still he waited--in vain--they were gone. The soldier and his wife lay down once more without a word. There was no more need of argument than of accusation. For in those few moments the weight of his calamities had broken through into the under quicksands of his character and revealed them to himself. VIII. SEVEN YEARS OF SUNSHINE Poets and painters make darkness stand for oblivion. But for evil things or sad there is no oblivion like sunshine. The next day was hot, blue, and fragrant. John rose so late that he had to sit up in front of his breakfast alone. He asked the maid near by if she thought his father would be home soon. She "reckoned so." "I wish he would be home in a hour," he mused, aloud. "I wish he would be on the mountain road right now." When he stepped down and started away she crouched before him. "Whah you bound fuh, ole gen'leman, lookin' so sawt o' funny-sad?" "I dunno." "W'at you gwine do, boss?" "I dunno." "Well, cayn't you kiss me, Mist' I-dunno?"