corner Ben had made in the first days they were together. Yes, and
this chair on which she was sitting--she remembered how they had
laughed over its funny shape before he had padded it with cotton and
covered it with the piece of linsey "old Mis'" had given him. The very
chest in which her things were packed he had made, and when the last
nail was driven he had called it her trunk, and said she should put
her finery in it when she went traveling like the white folks. She was
going traveling now, and Ben--Ben? There he sat across from her in his
chair, bowed and broken, his great shoulders heaving with suppressed
grief.

Then, before she knew it, Viney was sobbing, and had crept close to
him and put her arms around his neck. He threw out his arms with a
convulsive gesture and gathered her up to his breast, and the tears
gushed from his eyes.

When the first storm of weeping had passed Viney rose and went to the
fireplace. She raked forward the coals.

"Ben," she said, "hit's been dese pleggoned free papahs. I want you to
see em bu'n."

"No, no!" he said. But the papers were already curling, and in a
moment they were in a blaze.

"Thaih," she said, "thaih, now, Viney Raymond!"

Ben gave a great gasp, then sprang forward and took her in his arms
and kicked the packed chest into the corner.