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that she would go away. Back to the farm. As her mother had done. . . .

When at last she was ready, she opened her door. Delia was in the hall ostensibly busy, but with an eye to interesting developments.

"Yo' Daddy's gone a-huntin'," she said, as Hildegarde appeared, "with Mr. Neale."

"Not this morning," incredulously.

"Yes, honey."

"When did they go?"

"Befo' sun-up."

In Hildegarde's state of mind this seemed the final affront—that he could go off with their enemy, while destinies hung in the balance!

"What time are they coming back, Delia?"

"Mistuh Neale he tole Sampson they'd git here by nine. They's been a lot of men calling up, but Mistuh Neale gave orders we wasn't to ax no questions or answer none."

Reporters, probably, on the track of Sally's jilted suitor. The telephone rang again and Delia went to answer it. Hildegarde following the maid down the stairs moved automatically. She was beyond sensation. Numb.

She came to the first landing, and stopped. The lattices of the great window were flung wide, framing an expanse of deep unbroken blue. Hildegarde stared, fascinated. Back of her was her father's house, haunted by shadows, darkened by the dreadfulness of strife and misunderstanding—ahead of her was that cloudless azure curtain, hiding what one felt must be ineffable light.