_Well_, Amelia thought, swinging her own bony shanks over the side of the bed, _I’m glad they didn’t send the hounds after him_. He was sulking somewhere in the woods. But Mr. Covey said the dogs would tear him to pieces. _A bad way to die--even for a nigger._ “He’ll come back,” Covey had barked. “A nigger always comes crawlin’ back to his eatin’ trough.” Amelia left the cotton dress open at the neck. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hot today. Lucy was already down, her eyes red in a drawn face. Her sister guessed that she had spent a sleepless night, tossing in the big bed, alone. Caroline was nowhere in sight. When he appeared, dressed in his Sunday best, Mr. Covey was smiling genially. This one day he could play his favorite rôle--master of a rolling plantation, leisurely, gracious, served by devoted blacks. He enjoyed Sunday. “Not going to church, Amelia?” he asked pleasantly as he rose from the table. Amelia was apologetic. “No, Mr. Covey, I--I don’t feel up to it this mornin’. Got a mite of headache.” “Now that’s too bad, Sister. It’s this awful heat. Better lie down a while.” He turned to his wife. “Come, my dear, we don’t want to be late. You dress and I’ll see if Bill has hitched up.” Picking his teeth, he strolled out to the yard. Amelia started scraping up the dishes. “Leave ’em be.” Lucy spoke crossly. “Reckon Caroline can do something.” So Amelia was out front and saw Fred marching up the road! Funny, but that’s exactly the way it seemed. He wasn’t just walking. She was digging around her dahlias, hoping against hope they would show a little life. She had brought the bulbs from home and set them out in front of the house. Of course they weren’t growing, but Amelia kept at them. Sometimes dahlias surprised you. She straightened up and stared. It was Fred, all right, raising a dust out there in the road. Mr. and Mrs. Covey were coming down the porch steps just as Fred swung in the gate. He kept right on coming. Poor Lucy’s mouth sagged open, but Mr. Covey smiled like a saint. “Well, now, you’re back, and no worse for wear.” He paused, taking in the discolored bandage and the spattered tatters. He spoke impatiently. “Get yourself cleaned up. This is Sunday.” The boy stepped aside. Mr. Covey and his wife moved toward their buggy. As Fred turned to go around back, Mr. Covey called to him. “Oh, yes, round up those pigs that got into the lower lot last night. That’s a good boy.” Then the master leaned over, waved his hand at Amelia and drove away, sitting beside his good wife. It made a pretty picture! Amelia could see Fred, standing at the side of the house, facing the road. There was a funny look on his face.