“It’s time to lay off the cotton fields,” Mary murmured. “Polly, if anything should happen to me, you’ll see that the chillun keeps together at the poor farm, won’t you?” “Shucks, you’re goin’ to get well—that’s what’s goin’ to happen to you, Mary Lomux. Now lie still and rest while I straighten up the house.” Mary lay quite still for a long, long while, looking toward home with a great wistfulness in her weary eyes and a dark fear in her heart. By and by a wagon turned across the bare, sun-baked flat that separated Mary’s shack from the factory grounds and stopped at the head of Factory Row. It was spotlessly new, even to the snowy bow-sheet, and the household furnishings visible through the shirred opening were new, also. Mary saw the driver spring down lightly and throw the reins over a broken gatepost. Then Tobe stumbled up the steps, dully ashamed of his unconquerable emotion, for he came of a race who count it unmanly to betray any outward sign of feeling. But it was impossible for him to speak calmly. “I didn’t have no idee you was sick, Mary,” said he shakingly. “I’m real glad Polly come an’ told me about it. I thought I’d drop in an’ see how you’s comin’ on, jest to be neighborly,” he added in a voice that seemed to come from a great distance. Mary struggled up with a smothered cry, but fell back weakly among the pillows and cried instead of answering, while Polly stared helpless from the doorway and Tobe wrestled with his heart’s desire to take the poor little woman in his arms and comfort her in love’s own way. And while they waited a thin little voice came from the pillows. “I ain’t a bit sick,” it said, “jest that flustered I can’t help but cry. Don’t mind me—Tobe. I’m real—glad to see you.” “Mary,” Tobe rose from the chair into which he had dropped and stooped over the little trembling figure until his big, firm, strong hands rested on her shoulders. “Mary, do you reckon you could make out to go on up to Lumpkin with me? I’d love, the best kind to raise a crop this year.” A cry of inarticulate joy struggled up from the pillows and after a moment a little tear-wet, lovely radiant face looked up at Tobe. “Do you mean—Oh, Tobe, would you take the _chillun_ too?” Mary faltered. “Sure thing, an’ be only too glad. Land, how I’ve missed them young ’uns!” cried Tobe, every fiber of his being aglow. Mary’s joy brimmed over. “Oh Polly, did you hear that!” she called in sheer ecstacy. “I couldn’t be happier—no, not if I was in heaven.” The young man lifted his head and looked straight at Polly with wet, shining eyes. “Say, you’ve got to go long with us,” he said unsteadily, “’cause I ain’t goin’ to leave Mary do a lick of work till she gits plum strong agin, no matter what comes. Git ready, will you, Polly?”