“Doan you git ’sturbed, now, honey. Martha shuah knows the signs. I done discover the signs a long while ago—when I fall in love with a worfless nigger in St. Louis. He shuah did captivate me, honey. I done try to wiggle out of it—but ’tain’t no use. Face the fac’s, Martha, face the fac’s, I tell myself—an’ I done it. Ain’t no use for to try an’ fool the fac’s, honey—not one bit of use! The ol’ fac’ he look at you an’ say: ‘Doan you try to wiggle ’way from me; I’s heah, an’ heah I’s goin’ to stay!’ That Squint man ain’t no lady-killer, honey, but he’s shuah a he-man from the groun’ up!” Marion escaped Martha as quickly as she could; and after breakfast began systematically to rearrange the furniture to suit her artistic ideals. Martha helped, but not again did Martha refer to Quinton Taylor—something in Marion’s manner warned her that she could trespass too far in that direction. Some time during the morning Marion saw Parsons ride up and dismount at the stable door; and later she heard him cross the porch. She looked out of one of the front windows and saw him huddled in a big rocking-chair, and she wondered at the depression that sat so heavily upon him. The girl did not pause in her work long enough to partake of the lunch that Martha set for her—so interested was she; and therefore she did not know whether or not Parsons came into the house. But along about four o’clock in the afternoon, wearied of her task, Marion entered the kitchen. From Martha she learned that Parsons had not stirred from the chair on the porch during the entire day. Concerned, Marion went out to him. Parsons did not hear her; he was still moodily and resentfully reviewing the incident of the morning. He started when the girl placed a gentle hand on one of his shoulders, seeming to cringe from her touch; then he looked up at her suddenly. “What do you want?” he demanded. “Don’t you feel well, Uncle Elam?” she inquired. Her hand rose from his shoulder to his head, and her fingers ran through his hair with a light, gentle touch that made him shiver with repugnance. There were times when Parsons hated this living image of his brother-in-law with a fervor that seemed to sear his heart. Now, however, pity for himself had rather dulled the edge of his hatred. A calamity had befallen him; he was crushed under it; and the sympathy of one whom he hated was not entirely undesirable. No sense of guilt assailed the man. He had never betrayed his hate to her, and he would not do so now. That wasn’t his way. He had always masked it from her, making her think he felt an affection for her which was rather the equal of that which custom required a man should feel for a niece. Yet he had always hated her. “I’m not exactly well,” he muttered. “It’s the damned atmosphere, I suppose.” “Martha tells me that it _does_ affect some persons,” said the girl. “And lack of appetite seems to be one of the first symptoms—in your case. For Martha tells me you have not eaten.”