So, one by one they subscribed, and hoped for the book soon, until their orders were many. The evening had approached until the hour was near six, when they came upon another, a black woman truly, but pride, apparently, she had plenty. While not the finest, in point of value, her house was one of the cosiest. It was painted in two colors, and reposed quietly behind a medley of small trees, around which was a fair stand of blue grass. The lace curtains, all clean and white, contrasted beautifully behind and below the pale green shades, while within the furniture was artistically arranged. They were invited in, and made most welcome. "Yes," said the black woman, "I am fond, very fond of good books, and when it comes to one which my race has produced, I want it, for such are few. So you may take my name, and bring the book as soon as you can." They thanked her profusely, and spoke, as they had spoken many times that day, kind words of encouragement and praise. She appreciated it. Yet some said of this woman, before the two made this call: "She's a mean nigger, and you'll neveh be 'vited in da' house! Um-m! She has no 'commadation 'bout her, and she's eidder stuck up, ah she's a witch!" Whereupon they shook their black heads, and went their way with a mutter. But 'ere long another--and he was himself a practical and successful man--said: "She's O.K., a fine woman; but she runs a grocery store while her husband digs coal, and, well, she doesn't credit Tom, Dick and Harry." And then Wyeth and his companion understood. * * * * * The day's work was done at last, and they were hurrying back to town. They were tired, both mentally and physically, but their spirits were high. They were, moreover, grateful, and seemed, to a great degree, to understand each other. Their friendship has reached the stage at which they could indulge in confidences, Miss Palmer especially. She regarded Wyeth, out of her liquid eyes, and smiled kindly, confidentially. "I'm glad I took up the work--now." She smiled with more confidence than before. "Yes; I am, really. I have _enjoyed_ it." And still she smiled. He did too. She smiled back, and then, in a voice that was so soft, and kind, and confidential, she said: "You wrote it, didn't you?" He heard the car as it crashed along through the night, for the sun had set long ago. The trees, for they were passing through the forest, flashed darkly through the electric lighted car, and Miss Palmer waited. He did not reply. After a time--shall we say minutes--she sought his eye. She was languid, and resigned to a degree. "If you would only admit that which I am positive is true, it would be so nice. I would truly be satisfied." "What matter could it make?" and then he stopped. She might be more interesting curious than otherwise.... He remained silent. "Oh, why do you maintain this silence regarding the authorship?" she fretted, moving restlessly about.