on the evening after mrs. colbert’s departure for town, till felt lonely and downcast. all day she had been busy and resolutely cheerful. now, as the sun was going down behind the hills, she sat on the doorstep of her cabin watching the long twilight come on.

this was the first year she had ever missed the easter trip to winchester with her mistress. she was glad nancy had been chosen, because it seemed to mean that miss sapphy’s unaccountable harshness toward the girl was melting. but deep in her heart till felt slighted and left behind. it was always a great treat for her to stay in judge halstead’s town house, and to help serve at the dinner parties which mrs. halstead gave after easter. the third sister, mrs. bushwell, who now owned chestnut hill, came to winchester at that time, bringing her maid and coachman, and from them till could hear about everything that had happened at home since last easter; “home” being always chestnut hill.

this mill farm on back creek had never been home to till. she liked, as she said to herself, to live among “folks,” not among poor farmers and backwoods people. the finer accomplishments she had learned from mrs. matchem, those of which she was most proud, had little chance here. before the mistress became an invalid, things were better. then friends from winchester often came to stay overnight or to spend a week; there was some satisfaction in keeping the brass and silver bright, the stores of bed linen and table linen bleached. in those days miss sapphy used to go back to chestnut hill almost every summer for a long visit with her sister, and till went with her.

sitting there on her doorstep and remembering happier times, till found herself shivering. she got up and went into the cabin. when she came back, she had a wool-stuffed bed-quilt about her shoulders. on a still twilight in spring and summer, clouds of fleecy mist curled over the low meadow down where the mill dam was. all till’s secret discontent with the mill farm she expressed by the quiet statement that it was “damp.” even on a sunny wash-day the sheets were longer drying than they should be. in the fall the hoar frost was heavier here than over at mrs. blake’s place on the big road. when till and the mistress came back from their easter fortnight in town, and no fires had been lighted in the parlour, they found damp spots on the english wall-paper.

“they’ve had moisture up here,” miss sapphy would remark cheerfully. “all the better for the early roses.” she would never admit that it was damper here than elsewhere.

but to till the heavy atmosphere brought a heaviness of heart. she was not, under any circumstances, a gay darky. in early childhood, at chestnut hill, she had suffered a frightful shock. one night, lying in her trundle bed, she was watching her mother dress for the servants’ new year’s party. she saw her mother’s finery catch fire from a candle; saw her, in flames, run screaming out into the winter wind. the poor woman was fatally burned before the men could overtake her and beat out the fire. as for the child, the negroes declared she had been struck dumb and would never speak again. she said not a word when they tried to comfort her, but looked at them with terrified eyes. mrs. matchem, the housekeeper, took till up to the big house and put her into a cot in her own room. there, away from the emotional darkies, she began to sleep naturally again, and was soon a quick-witted, observant little girl, — but a grave and serious one. so was mrs. matchem serious. till was devoted to her; strove to imitate her in speech and manner. matchem impressed it upon her that there was all the difference in the world between doing things exactly right and doing them somehow-or-other. the little black girl would stand looking up at the tall devonshire woman, taking these precepts devoutly to heart. to the sly whispers of the under servants that an easier way was just as good, she steeled herself as if the bad man himself were whispering in her ear.

after captain dodderidge died, and miss sapphy married and went out to back creek, her sister, mrs. bushwell, bought in chestnut hill. all mrs. bushwell’s interest was in the stables; she left the management of the house entirely to matchem. till stayed on, working under matchem until she was fifteen. then sapphira colbert made a trade for her.

one summer, when she drove down to chestnut hill for her yearly visit, mrs. colbert took with her a young negro who had a great knack with horses. for two winters she had hired him out to the new blacksmith on back creek. this smith had come over from pennsylvania, and his skill was a wonder to that sleepy community. he could not only shoe and doctor horses; he built good carts and wagons. mrs. colbert easily convinced her sister that a boy trained under such a smith would be very useful in her stables. she was willing to part with him in exchange for the girl till, and a hundred dollars to boot. mrs. bushwell, surprised by this liberal offer, closed the deal at once. but matchem looked down her long nose and compressed her lips.

till was not unhappy at the prospect of travel and new scenes. she set off in the coach, eager and journey-proud. but from the first night of her arrival at the mill farm she had felt buried in the deep woods. for years to come she was homesick for mrs. matchem and the open, breezy, well-planted country she had left behind her.

when sapphira married her off to jefferson, who was so much older, and whose incapacities were well known among the darkies, till accepted this arrangement with perfect dignity. how much it hurt her pride no one ever knew; perhaps she did not know herself. perhaps the strongest desire of her life was to be “respectable and well-placed.” mrs. matchem had taught her to value position. it was the right thing for a parlour maid and lady’s maid to be always presentable and trim of figure. none of the heavy work of a big country house was put upon till. she always wore a black dress and white apron, neat shoes and stockings. some years after she had moved her belongings from her attic chamber in the big house over to jeff’s cabin, the cuban painter came along to do the portraits. he was a long while doing them.

sitting on the doorstep huddled in her quilt, till heard a mournful sound come from the deep woods across the creek: the first whippoorwill. she sighed. how she hated the call of that bird! every spring she had to listen to it, coming out of this resigned, unstirring back-country. another spring, and here she still was, by the mill-pond and the damp meadows.

up yonder, at the end of a long road winding through the woods, the level line of timber ridge rose like a blue wall. when you had crossed the ridge and gone on a ways, you came to the capon river. till had been that far, when the mistress stayed at capon springs to take the baths. on beyond that was romney, where people of some account lived, she had heard. in front of her, across the creek, she could see the wavering slopes of the north mountain; no roads up there, just a few wheel-tracks through woods that never ended. cabins, miles apart; corn patches and potato patches; pumpkins, maybe. till believed the poor white trash up there lived mostly on the squirrels they shot, and the pig or two they fed on acorns. down here in the valley, along the big road that led to winchester, there were some sightly farmhouses, certainly, where well-to-do families lived. when you got as far as hayfield church, the woods began to open up, and the country looked more human.

but it wasn’t until she caught sight of the red brick springhouse over the town spring, a little this way out of winchester, that till felt she was back in the world again.

how she loved the first glimpse of cobble-paved streets, with no mud on them! you drove into town by water street, lined on either side with neat mansard houses built of pale gray limestone; gray, but almost blue, and not dressed so smooth as to take all the life out of the rugged stone. such genteel houses they were, opening directly on the street, with green window shutters, and brass knockers; a little walled garden and a hydrant behind each house. water street seemed to welcome you to town.

after you drove on and passed christ church, then you came to where the quality lived; where judge halstead lived; where miss sapphy and nancy were this very night. there the houses had porticos with tall columns, and were set in lawns shaded by flowering trees. how often, when judge halstead’s “mansion” was lit up for a party, till had stood at the foot of the stairway in the big hall, waiting to show the ladies to the upper chambers and help them take off their wraps. whenever the manservant heard the crunch of wheels on the driveway and threw open the front door . . . .

just then till heard a very different sound, close at hand. old jeff came shuffling along in the dusk. he stopped and stood uneasily before the seated figure.

“it’s a-gittin’ right late, deery,” he said in his squeaky voice.