“Ah, don't be foolish!” Jim said persuasively. “It can't hurt you. Here, take it in your hand--I'll show you how to work it. It's to nose round dark places under the buzz-wagon.” He held it out to Nance. “Here, take it and press the button.” The old woman drew back. “No--no--I'm skeered! No----” Jim thrust the torch into her hand and forced her to hold it. “Oh, come on, it's easy. Push your finger right down on the button.” Nance tried it gingerly at first, and then laughed at the ease with which it could be done. She flashed it on the floor again and again. “Why, it's like a big lightnin' bug, ain't it?” She turned the end of it up to examine more closely, pushed the button unconsciously, and the light flashed in her eyes. She jumped and handed it quickly to Jim. “Or a jack o' lantern--here, take it,” she cried, still trembling. Jim threw his hands up with a laugh. “Can you beat it!” Backing quickly to the door, Nance called nervously to Mary: “I'll get your room ready in a minute, ma'am.” She paused and glanced at Jim. “And thar's a shed out thar you can put your devil wagon in----” She slipped through the dirty calico curtains, and Mary saw her go with wondering pity in her heart. CHAPTER XV. A LITTLE BLACK BAG Mary watched Nance, with a quick glance at Jim. Again he had forgotten that he had a wife. She had studied this strange absorption with increasing uneasiness. During the long, beautiful drive of the afternoon beside laughing waters, through scenes of unparalleled splendor, through valleys of entrancing peace, the still, sapphire skies bending above with clear, Southern Christmas benediction, he had not once pressed her hand, he had not once bent to kiss her. Each time the thought had come, she fought back the tears. She had made excuses for him. He was absorbed in the memories of his miserable childhood in New York, perhaps. The approaching meeting with his relatives had awakened the old hunger for a mother's love that had been denied him. The scenes through which they were passing had perhaps stirred the currents of his subconscious being. And yet why should such memories estrange his spirit from hers? The effect should be the opposite. In the remembrance of his loneliness and suffering, he should instinctively turn to her. The love with which she had unfolded his life should redeem the past. He was standing now with his heavy chin silhouetted against the flickering light of the candle on the table. His hand closed suddenly on the handle of the bag with the swift clutch of an eagle's claw. She started at the ugly picture it made in the dim rays of the candle.