Covey remembered that he _had_ been keeping a roof over her head all these years. And what had he got out of it? Nothing. His eyes narrowed. “Where you aiming to go?” “I’m going to Washington. A cousin of Tom’s down there--his name’s Jack Haley--says I can get a--a job.” Her words had started in a rush, but they faltered a little by the time she reached her incredible conclusion. _A job in Washington!_ Was the female crazy? In a surge of masculine protectiveness, Covey glowered at her. “Who said you had to get out and get a job? Eh? Who said so?” Amelia swallowed. She had not expected an argument. She did not intend to argue. She had to be getting along. She would miss her boat. She spoke firmly. “Mr. Covey, it’s all settled. I’m going. Ben told me you were sending him to town this afternoon. I want to ride with him.” Covey spoke deliberately. “The nigger’s lyin’--as usual. He better not go off the place this afternoon. An’ you best get those fool notions out of your head. You can stay right here and look after the house. I ain’t kickin’.” He strode into the kitchen. That took care of that. It was close to ten miles to St. Michaels. She’d have time to think it over. But who was this fellow in Washington--a cousin of her late husband, so she said. Um-um! Yes, Amelia had more spirit than poor Lucy. Amelia, left standing in the hall, sighed and set down her bag. _A pretty kettle of fish!_ Did Covey think he could hold her? Was she one of his slaves? Then in a flash of realization she saw the truth. She was indeed a slave--had been for all these years. And she was running away--just as much as those black slaves she read about. Amelia picked up her suitcase, walked out onto the porch, down the steps, along the path, out to the road. She looked down the long dusty road to St. Michaels, and started walking. It was nearly two miles to Lawson’s place, and when she reached the welcome shade of his grove she sank down to rest. Not too bad: she was making time. She rubbed her benumbed arm and wondered if there weren’t something in the bag she could dump out. She was going to have blisters on her feet. Soon, now, she’d reach the highway. If she did not get a ride, she would miss the boat. When she set out again, she stumbled and cut her foot against a hidden stone. There was no time to do anything about it, however, so she plodded along, fixing her mind firmly on the Washington boat. Thus she did not hear the cart until it was close behind her. Then she stopped, her legs trembling. The mule stopped without any sign from the Negro driver.