Joseph, his father, and two brothers escaped from the turmoil during the day. They rode far and wide upon Waccamaw Neck inspecting the plantations, but Theo was not invited to accompany them. She was expected to amuse herself with proper feminine occupations—whatever they might be: apparently nothing except needlework and gossip. She was bored, and her nerves were frazzled by the constant pressure of people and noise.

A new noise had been added to the clamor on the morning after her arrival. Mrs. Alston had been duly delivered of twins a few minutes after the first cock-crow, and the incessant wailing of sickly babies now pervaded the house.

No one but Theo seemed astonished at this exact fulfillment of Maum Chloe's prophecies. Nor was anyone surprised three days later when the tiniest of the baby girls gave a brief feeble cry and was suddenly stilled forever. Maum Chloe had foreseen that too. Her conjuh had told her.

The little body was tucked into its oak coffin and buried that day. For an hour or two the men went around with solemn faces, and from the 'street' of negro cabins rose an outlandish keening for the dead, but even the mother did not mourn long. There had been so many babies, and she was too tired and spent to feel much. Besides, her arms were not empty, there was still a baby left to fill them: little Mary Motte, her own namesake.

But to Theodosia this casual acceptance of birth and death was painful and frightening. She wrote to her father about it, and in time had one of his breezy letters full of advice and common sense. 'You must not indulge yourself in morbid fancies,' wrote Aaron. 'Adapt yourself to the customs and temper of mind that you may find in your new environment. It would be wiser to be less critical, more tolerant, though indeed I know my little Theo well enough to be sure that she would never show outward discourtesy of any kind.'

Theo sighed as she read this. It wasn't exactly a question of criticism or intolerance. She was trying to adapt herself, but the ways and outlook of the Alstons were so alien. Nor did they make any effort to understand her.

She went out for a walk by herself one morning after breakfast and tried seriously to think out her problem. To get off alone had brought on a minor crisis. Maria had asked where she was going and why. First Charlotte and then two of the younger children had tried to accompany her and had had to be discouraged.

'At least,' said Maria, 'do not take any of the paths leading to the rice fields, because the field hands would think it most unseemly to see Mrs. Alston wandering around at such an hour. Do not go off the plantation road. Take one of the servants with you, or Venus—the proprieties will thus be better observed.'