Suddenly she
became aware of her long silence and the silence of the boy.
"Bles," she began didactically, "where are you from?"
He glanced across at her and answered shortly:
"Georgia, ma'am," and was silent.
The girl tried again.
"Georgia is a large State,"--tentatively.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Are you going back there when you finish?"
"I don't know."
"I think you ought to--and work for your people."
"Yes, ma'am."
She stopped, puzzled, and looked about. The old horse jogged lazily on,
and Bles switched him unavailingly. Somehow she had missed the way
today. The Veil hung thick, sombre, impenetrable. Well, she had done her
duty, and slowly she nestled back and watched the far-off green and
golden radiance of the cotton.
"Bles," she said impulsively, "shall I tell you of the Golden Fleece?"
He glanced at her again.
"Yes'm, please," he said.
She settled herself almost luxuriously, and began the story of Jason and
the Argonauts.
The boy remained silent. And when she had finished, he still sat silent,
elbow on knee, absently flicking the jogging horse and staring ahead at
the horizon. She looked at him doubtfully with some disappointment that
his hearing had apparently shared so little of the joy of her telling;
and, too, there was mingled a vague sense of having lowered herself to
too familiar fellowship with this--this boy.
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