Americy had mastered the chords slowly, but she liked to drone the songs that were sung at the church, and Theodosia helped her to set the tunes to the guitar—_Beulah Land_, _I Saw My Jesus_, _Tell It Again_, _Come Sinner Come_, and _Glory to His Name_. Once when Theodosia saw her own face in the dim glass above Americy’s bureau she searched it there, in this strange place. “Lethe hates me,” she thought on the instant, seeing her thin curving lips. It seemed to her that she lived with only a part of her being, that only a small edge of her person lifted up into the light of the day. “Lethe hates me,” she thought, and her mind was fascinated by Lethe’s strong will and by her indifferent enmity that was manifested by her continued absence from the cabin. Feeling herself a commonplace, she left the music when the needs of it were satisfied and went again to sit before Americy’s ironing table and listen to her reserved disclosures. “What am I to her?” she would question, searching into the relation of flesh to flesh. She turned again and again to Albert, remembering Conway, clung to him in her suffering and implored him silently to come to her, to reconcile her to the loss. He was from the town much of the time, but, returned, he was seen continually with Florence now. Theodosia rejected Florence from her passion; since Conway’s loss she was of no account although she was allowed, recognized. Albert might choose and have whomever he would; this was no matter. But continually she listened for his step on the gallery floor and for his voice in the hallway. Walking to Americy’s cabin in the bright sun of a midday, she would suddenly see his strong firm hand, sunburned and full of power, taking its heavy certain being in gestures or in quiet. She thought that he would surely come some day to sit quietly with her, to talk with her sadly of Conway. She determined that she would contrive to see Albert again although each plan for an encounter was at once rejected. Americy would push her iron over a reach of damp cloth and leave a smooth trail of steaming surface behind, delicately pleased but embarrassed at the visit, and she would talk guardedly, disclosing as little as she might of her life and the life of Lethe. Sitting before her, watching the magic of the iron as it turned rough garments into smooth, Theodosia would know that she must somehow meet Albert again, that she would send him some message which would bring him to her door.