"Well, 'long 'bout seven o'clock or half pas'.
She's goin' on the Old North State, an' it leaves
at eight."

Frank stood looking after Mis' Molly as she
picked her way across the street, until he was
recalled to his duty by a sharp word from his
father.

" 'Ten' ter yo' wuk, boy, 'ten' ter yo' wuk. You
're wastin' yo' time--wastin' yo' time!"

Yes, he was wasting his time. The beautiful
young girl across the street could never be anything
to him. But he had saved her life once,
and had dreamed that he might render her again
some signal service that might win her friendship,
and convince her of his humble devotion. For
Frank was not proud. A smile, which Peter
would have regarded as condescending to a free
man, who, since the war, was as good as anybody
else; a kind word, which Peter would have
considered offensively patronizing; a piece of Mis'
Molly's famous potato pone from Rena's hands,
--a bone to a dog, Peter called it once;--were
ample rewards for the thousand and one small
services Frank had rendered the two women who
lived in the house behind the cedars.