"Be ashamed o' yorese'f, young man," he said; "ef you don't want to be
prayed fer you don't have to, but don't cut up any o' yore shines with
these Christian women who are tryin' to do good."
"You don't know what you are talking about," replied Westerfelt, and he
turned away quickly, and went across the cleared space to his horse and
buggy. Jake, who was lying on the ground with some other negroes, ran
forward and unfastened his horse, and gave him the reins.
"Want me to go back wid yer, Marse John?" he asked.
"No," answered Westerfelt, and he drove rapidly homeward. Reaching the
stable, he put up his horse, and went to the room over the office. He
sat down, took up an old newspaper, and tried to read it, but there
seemed to be something in the paling light on the bare fields outside
and the stillness of the empty building that oppressed him. He rose
and looked out of the window. Not a soul was in sight. The store and
the bar, with their closed shutters, looked as if they had not been
opened for a century. A brindled cow stood in the middle of the
street, jangling a discordant bell, and lowing dolefully.
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