it was a little past midnight, and sapphira had been asleep for an hour or more, when she was rudely awakened. nancy had burst in at her door and was calling out, like someone startled.

“yes, miss sapphy, here i is. whassa matter, mam?”

“nothing at all is the matter. have you gone crazy, nancy, waking me up out of my sleep like this?”

“oh, you called out, missy. you sho’ly did. an’ i was havin’ bad dreams about you.”

“be more careful what you eat, and don’t come to me with your bad dreams. you know if i’m once wakened it’s hard for me to get to sleep again.”

“i’m dreadful sorry, missy. i was sure i heard you callin’, an’ i feared you was taken bad, maybe. no, mam, i won’t come in thoughtless agin. maybe i better run down to ma’s cabin tonight, if i’m a-goin’ to be res’less an’ disturb you?”

“you go right back to your own bed, and control yourself properly. i won’t have such crazy behaviour.”

“yes, mam.” nancy went out and closed the door softly behind her. she sat down on her pallet and wrapped a quilt about her shoulders. she did not lie down; she would wait until it was time to roll up her bed and put it in the back closet. her rushing in upon her mistress had been a ruse. she had heard no call, but she had heard something — a cautious, barefoot step on the wide stairway which led from the upper chambers down into the open hall where she lay on her pallet before the mistress’s door. the stair treads always creaked a little; the dampness of the air kept the wood from drying thoroughly.

when the mistress sent her back to bed, nancy told herself that if she heard that stealthy step again, she would run down the hall and out the back door, over to her mammy’s cabin. she believed someone upstairs was listening as intently as she. it was a horrible feeling. if she had the start of him, she knew she could outrun him. but then there was the curved oak banister of the stairway, smooth as glass; anybody could slide down it without making a sound. once he was in the hall, she wouldn’t have the start of him. he would be there.

at last the first grey daylight came through the wide windows at the foot of the stairs. it gave her a feeling of safety so sweet that she cuddled her head in her pillow and dozed a little. for hours the object of her terror had been fast asleep in his upstairs chamber. when he heard the sound of voices in his aunt’s room, he had shrugged his shoulders and gone back to bed.

as the grey light grew stronger, nancy rose very softly and dressed, — a simple process, since in summer she went barefoot and slept in her sleeveless “shimmy” (chemise). she had only to tie her petticoat round her waist and slip her calico dress over her head. she tiptoed down the long hall and ran out into the flower garden. the sun was just coming up over the mountain. fleecy pink clouds were scattered about the sky, and the distant hills had turned gold. a curling mist hung over the low meadows down by the mill dam. the dew from the shrubbery was dripping in splashes upon the brick walks, and on the boxwood hedges the silvery spiderwebs trembled with glistening waterdrops. the tea roses and bleeding-hearts hung heavy, as if they would never rise again. nobody was stirring in the negro cabins; their overgrowth of trumpet vines and gourd vines was so wet that by running into them you could take a shower bath. it made your skin pretty, washing your face and arms in the dew.

oh, this was a beautiful place! nancy didn’t believe there was a lovelier spot in the world than this right here. she felt so joyful that her heart beat as hard as it did last night when she was scared. she loved everybody in those vine-covered cabins, everybody. this morning she would be glad to see even fat lizzie and bluebell. after all, they were home folks. and down yonder was the mill, “and the master so kind and so true.” that was in a song miss sapphy used to sing before she got sick, and to nancy those words had always meant mister henry. was it possible that she might have lost all this happiness last night, the night just gone? but it was still hers: the home folks and the home place and the precious feeling of belonging here. maybe that fright back there in the dark hall had been just a bad dream. out here it didn’t seem true.

look-a-there! the smoke was coming out of sampson’s chimley a’ready. he was up, getting breakfast for his children, and his wife, who managed to be sick most of the time. all the niggers knew that sampson not only got the breakfast: in the small hours of the night he baked all the bread for his family. what patience the man had! and he never raised his low, kind voice against anybody.

one morning, soon after the above incident, the miller found his wife sitting alone at breakfast, and learned that his nephew had ridden off to winchester for the day.

“i hope he won’t use my horse too hard,” he remarked. “when is he coming back?”

“tomorrow, i think.”

the miller was silent for a moment, then said with a shade of impatience, “how long is mart going to hang around here, anyway?”

“we can’t very well ask our kin how long they intend to stay with us, can we?”

“maybe not, but he’s been here about six weeks, and that’s a long visit.”

sapphira smiled. “i remember my father used to tell how benjamin franklin said: ‘hospitality, like fish, stinks after three days.’ that may be true in the north, but we don’t feel that way in virginia, i hope.”

“sapphira, i’ve had about enough of martin’s company. i never liked his father’s ways, and i don’t like his. what does he want here, anyway?”

“maybe the boy wants a refuge, — from creditors.”

“or from the men of families where he’s brought disgrace,” her husband muttered.

she shook her finger at him. “now, don’t be too hard on him, henry. your brothers were all like that, you know. and martin has a gentlemanly side which they had not. i am certainly not very lively company for a young blade to spend his evenings with, but if he is dull here he never shows it. certainly i shall miss him when he is gone.”

“well, if you take pleasure in his company, i shan’t say anything. but he will demoralize the servants. his way with the young darkies is too free. he goes into the woods across the creek to hunt mushrooms with that trifling bluebell.”

“if the servants go wrong from any visitor in the house, it’s their own fault. i think they know their place better. bluebell is a lazy, lying nigger as ever was, but i’ve found her smart enough to look out for herself. i doubt whether martin would so demean himself, but it’s no affair of mine.” sapphira laughed softly. it was almost as good as a play, she was thinking; the way whenever she and her husband were thinking of nancy, they invariably talked about bluebell.