Covey dropped into a chair on the front porch when they returned from the grave. All the lines of his body ran downward. Covey had not prospered. He knew nothing about a nationwide depression, Van Buren’s bickering with the banks, wars in Texas, or gag rules in Congress; he had no idea there was any connection between the 1840 presidential election and the price of cotton. He did know he was losing ground. No matter how hard he beat the slaves, crops failed or rotted in the fields, stock died, debts piled up, markets slumped and tempers were short all around the bay. Now, his wife was dead--_hadn’t been really sick, either. Just, petered out._ Here it was April, and the sun was scorching. He had heard no sound, but Covey was suddenly aware of being watched. He sat very still and stared hard into the bushes near the corner of the porch. Two hard, bright eyes stared back. Covey spoke sharply. “Who’s that? Who’s that sneakin’ in them bushes?” The eyes vanished, but the bushes did not stir. With a snarl, Covey leaned forward. “Dammit! I’ll git my shotgun!” The leaves parted and he saw the streaked, pallid, pinched face in which the green eyes blazed--a face topped with dirty, tangled tow-colored hair. It was an old face; but the slight body with pipe-stem legs and arms was that of a child, a girl-child not more than ten years old. She wore a coarse one-piece slip. One bare foot was wrapped as if to protect some injury, the other was scratched and bruised. The child did not come forward, but crouched beside the porch giving back stare for hard stare. Then with a little cry she disappeared around the house. Covey spat over the porch rail and settled back. It was that brat of Caroline’s of course, still running about like a wild animal. Time she was helping around the house. He began to deliberate. Might be better to get rid of her right off. She’d soon be market size, and yellow gals brought good prices. He’d speak to Caroline about feeding her up. Better bring her in the house. Mustn’t let Caroline suspect anything, though. He pulled himself up and turned to go inside. Maybe Caroline had something for him to eat. Amelia stopped him in the hallway. She was wearing a hat and carrying a suitcase. Covey frowned. “Oh, Mr. Covey! I was looking for you.” Her voice had a note of urgency. Amelia had a way of emerging from the nondescript background with startling vividness. Months passed when he hardly saw her. Then there she was jumping out at him! What the devil did she want now? He waited for her to explain. “I’m going away.” Just like that. No stumbling around the words. Covey let his flat eyes travel over her. Not a bad-looking woman, Amelia. More spirit than her sister. He spoke slowly. “I ain’t putting you out.” Amelia’s response sounded grateful enough. “Oh, I know, Mr. Covey. It’s not that. But now that poor Lucy’s gone, I’ve no right to--to impose.”