“Why， Clark， you know I do. I adore all you boys.”
“Then why you gettin’ engaged to a Yankee？”
“Clark， I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’ll do， but—well，I want to go places and see people. I want my mind to grow. Iwant to live where things happen on a big scale.”
“What you mean？”
“Oh， Clark， I love you， and I love Joe here and Ben Arrot，and you-all， but You’ll—You’ll—”
“We’ll all be failures？”
“Yes. I don’t mean only money failures， but just sort of—ofineffectual and sad， and—oh， how can I tell you？”
“You mean because we stay here in Tarleton？”
“Yes， Clark； and because you like it and never want tochange things or think or go ahead.”
He nodded and she reached over and pressed his hand.
“Clark，” she said softly， “I wouldn’t change you for theworld. You’re sweet the way you are. The things that’ll makeyou fail I’ll love always—the living in the past， the lazy daysand nights you have， and all your carelessness and generosity.”
“But you’re goin’ away？”
“Yes—because I couldn’t ever marry you. You’ve a place inmy heart no one else ever could have， but tied down here I’dget restless. I’d feel I was—wastin’ myself. There’s two sidesto me， you see. There’s the sleepy old side you love an’ there’sa sort of energy—the feeling that makes me do wild things.
That’s the part of me that may be useful somewhere， that"ll lastwhen I’m not beautiful any more.”
She broke of with characteristic suddenness and sighed， “Oh，sweet cooky！” as her mood changed.
Half closing her eyes and tipping back her head till it restedon the seat-back she let the savory breeze fan her eyes andripple the fluffy curls of her bobbed hair. They were in thecountry now， hurrying between tangled growths of brightgreencoppice and grass and tall trees that sent sprays offoliage to hang a cool welcome over the road. Here and therethey passed a battered negro cabin， its oldest white-hairedinhabitant smoking a corncob pipe beside the door， and half adozen scantily clothed pickaninnies parading tattered dolls onthe wild-grown grass in front. Farther out were lazy cottonfieldswhere even the workers seemed intangible shadows lentby the sun to the earth， not for toil， but to while away someage-old tradition in the golden September fields. And round thedrowsy picturesqueness， over the trees and shacks and muddyrivers， flowed the heat， never hostile， only comforting， like agreat warm nourishing bosom for the infant earth.
“Sally Carrol， we’re here！”
“Poor chile’s soun’ asleep.”
“Honey， you dead at last outa sheer laziness？”
“Water， Sally Carrol！ Cool water waitin’ for you！”
Her eyes opened sleepily.
“Hi！” she murmured， smiling.
II
In November Harry Bellamy， tall， broad， and brisk， camedown from his Northern city to spend four days. His intentionwas to settle a matter that had been hanging fire since heand Sally Carrol had met in Asheville， North Carolina， inmidsummer. The settlement took only a quiet afternoon andan evening in front of a glowing open fire， for Harry Bellamyhad everything she wanted； and， beside， she loved him—lovedhim with that side of her she kept especially for loving. SallyCarrol had several rather clearly defined sides.
On his last afternoon they walked， and she found their stepstending half-unconsciously toward one of her favorite haunts， thecemetery. When it came in sight， gray-white and golden-greenunder the cheerful late sun， she paused， irresolute， by the iron gate.
“Are you mournful by nature， Harry？” she asked with a faintsmile.
“Mournful？ Not I.”
“Then let’s go in here. It depresses some folks， but I like it.”
They passed through the gateway and followed a path thatled through a wavy valley of graves—dusty-gray and mouldyfor the fifties； quaintly carved with flowers and jars for theseventies； ornate and hideous for the nineties， with fat marblecherubs lying in sodden sleep on stone pillows， and greatimpossible growths of nameless granite flowers.
Occasionally they saw a kneeling figure with tributaryflowers， but over most of the graves lay silence and witheredleaves with only the fragrance that their own shadowymemories could waken in living minds.
They reached the top of a hill where they were fronted by atall， round head-stone， freckled with dark spots of damp andhalf grown over with vines.
“Margery Lee，” she read； “1844-1873. Wasn’t she nice？
She died when she was twenty-nine. Dear Margery Lee，” sheadded softly. “Can’t you see her， Harry？”
“Yes， Sally Carrol.”
He felt a little hand insert itself into his.
“She was dark， I think； and she always wore her hair with aribbon in it， and gorgeous hoop-skirts of Alice blue and old rose.”
“Yes.”
“Oh， she was sweet， Harry！ And she was the sort of girl bornto stand on a wide， pillared porch and welcome folks in. I thinkperhaps a lot of men went away to war meanin’ to come backto her； but maybe none of ‘em ever did.”
He stooped down close to the stone， hunting for any recordof marriage.
“There’s nothing here to show.”
“Of course not. How could there be anything there betterthan just ‘Margery Lee，’ and that eloquent date？”
She drew close to him and an unexpected lump came intohis throat as her yellow hair brushed his cheek.
“You see how she was， don’t you Harry？”
“I see，” he agreed gently. “I see through your precious eyes.
You’re beautiful now， so I know she must have been.”
Silent and close they stood， and he could feel her shoulderstrembling a little. An ambling breeze swept up the hill andstirred the brim of her floppidy hat.
“Let’s go down there！”
She was pointing to a flat stretch on the other side of thehill where along the green turf were a thousand grayish-whitecrosses stretching in endless， ordered rows like the stackedarms of a battalion.
“Those are the Confederate dead，” said Sally Carrol simply.
They walked along and read the inions， always only aname and a date， sometimes quite indecipherable.
“The last row is the saddest—see， ‘way over there. Everycross has just a date on it and the word ‘Unknown.’”
She looked at him and her eyes brimmed with tears.