Day was dawning as he passed Squire Kirby’s, and Jake, Kirby’s negro hand who fed the mules and horses, was just entering the yard. In the dim light Jake looked quickly at him, then stopped. “Dat you, Mr. Jeff Potter?” he demanded. There was something strange in Jake’s voice, and in his face too. Old Jeff thought about it as he splashed along the road home. “Jake must ’a’ thought I was a ha’nt too,” he chuckled. He did not hear the news until nearly midday. Worn out, he had fallen asleep across the bed on reaching home and had not waked until after nine. Then he had wound up the clock, got his lonely breakfast, and made a shift of tidying up his room. After that, he went outside. The weather had cleared; it was a bland winter day of the South, with the drenched straw fields and woods sparkling in the sun. He wandered aimlessly around his yard a while, and finally sat down on a bench in front of his cabin, and lit his pipe. He did not notice that the negroes in front of that other cabin across the field were looking curiously his way. He was very lonely now. The excitement of the night had passed. Usually on Sunday mornings like this he went to Blainey’s store, where others gathered--except when there was preaching--out in front and on the porch. They would be gathering there now, talking about him, and about the row last night. As for him, so long as he lived, he could never go there again. And so he was brooding when Bill Carson came along the old field road. Bill’s face was grave and he was hurrying. As he turned into the yard Jeff rose, his heart suddenly pounding. “Jeff, ain’t you heard, man?” “Heerd what, Bill?” “Frank Blainey’s store burned down at two o’clock las’ night!” Off yonder across the field old Jeff was suddenly conscious that the negroes were looking his way; and in Carson’s eyes he saw a close, narrow, searching scrutiny. “Come on inside,” said Carson. And inside, half dazed, Jeff heard. Folks--some folks--said he did it. The Blaineys especially. Frank was telling everybody. “You see, Jeff,” said Carson, gravely, “some niggers up here say they saw you goin’ toward the store at midnight. You didn’t have any lantern lit. Jake saw you comin’ back at daylight. They all spoke to you, but you didn’t speak to them. An’, Jeff, every other man aroun’ here was at that fire but you!” “Bill!” The old man’s voice was rising, “Bill, tell me as man to man--do you believe I done it?” Then Carson tried to quiet him, tried to evade the question, too. One thing was certain anyhow--the woman and children didn’t believe it. “I just left home, Jeff,” he said. “My wife an’ the kids had heard about it. They say they know you never done it. They made me come. I left little Ella cryin’. She wouldn’t go to Sunday-school this mornin’.”