All of her past resentments, unadmitted at the time of origin, indeed unsuspected, now worked in Sarah’s breast. No, she did not love Lauretta; she did not even like her. Likable and lovable she might be to men, but no woman would ever think of her without a frown or a curse. Pleased with this thought because it absolved her a little of her uncharitable resentment, Sarah smiled.

Then she heard Rachel laughing upstairs, and she flew through the hall and up the stairs and into the child’s room. Juanita was holding her in her arms at the window, although Rachel could perfectly well stand and walk by now. Sarah did not snatch at her impulsively but smiled at Juanita and held her arms out to the eager baby who continued to laugh as she leaned from Juanita toward Sarah to be taken.

Sarah took her, and rocked her in her arms, looking down at her face. “Whose baby are you?” she asked, and answered, “Mine!” At which the child and woman laughed their approval of each other. It was only half an hour later, when Rachel had demonstrated vigorously her standing, walking, and running abilities, and used her favorite words, but without making sentences, that Sarah gave her back into Juanita’s keeping and returned to her duties. Rachel laughed and cooed and flirted as long as Sarah was in sight. Juanita held her hand as she peered through the stair railings at the woman she clearly considered her mother. In the downstairs hall, heading for the kitchen, Sara thought; Poor Lauretta, what her foolishness has given me!

Floyd had written more often than Lauretta. To Lovey and Ezra he sent long, detailed letters telling where he had been, where he then was, and where he thought of going next. When he left Beulah Land that Thanksgiving midnight a year and a half ago, he did go on to Savannah, just as he and Felix had talked of his doing, and he sold the mare with saddle when he got there. From Savannah he worked his passage as common seaman on an English merchant ship carrying lumber and bales of cotton to Liverpool. A January passage on the Atlantic is more likely to be bad than good, and Floyd’s ship wallowed through a winter storm the whole way, from which he concluded that he hated the sea.