had not cleansed his face and hands. All at once it came to him
with something of a shock that this bare, refined poverty was
beyond his level--that about himself there was a coarseness, a
brutality even, that made him shrink from contact with these
others--with his mother, with Lila, with poor, maimed Tucker in
his cotton suit. Was it only a distinction in manner, he wondered
resentfully, or did the difference lie still deeper in some
unlikeness of soul? For the first time in his life he felt ill at
ease in the presence of those he loved, and as his eyes dwelt
moodily on Lila's graceful figure--upon the swell of her low
bosom, her swaying hips, and the free movement of her limbs--he
asked himself bitterly if he had aught in common with so delicate
and rare a thing? And she? Was her blithe acquiescence, after
all, but an assumed virtue, to whose outward rags she clung? Was
it possible that there was here no inward rebellion, none of that
warfare against Destiny which at once inspirited and embittered
his heart?

His face grew dark, and Uncle Boaz, coming in to stir the fire,
glanced up at him and sighed.

"You sho' do look down in de mouf, Marse Chris," he observed.

Christopher started and then laughed blankly. "Well, I'm not
proof against troubles, I reckon," he returned. "They're things
none of us can keep clear of, you know."

Uncle Boaz chuckled under his breath. "Go 'way f'om yer, Marse
Chris; w'at you know 'bout trouble--you ain' even mah'ed yet."