"Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said. "I was gwine to buy my weddin' dress wif dat." "But, Rachel," protested Ruth, in laughing remonstrance, "he has one wife." "Yes,'m. Pete Lawson ain't got no wife; but he ain't got but one arm, neither. Whicht one would you take, Miss Rufe?" "Pete," declared Ruth. "He's a good boy, what there is of him." "Well, I guess I better notify him to-night," sighed Rachel; but she held the love-letter on her knee and regretfully smoothed its crumpled edges. Ruth pushed back her chair from the table and crossed the wide hall to the library. It was a large room, with heavy wainscoting, above which simpered or frowned a long row of her ancestors.