“Look in yonder,” said Hager, pointing towards Annjee’s bedroom.

Sandy rushed in, then stopped, because there was no one there. Suddenly a queer feeling came over him and he put his books down on the bed. Jimboy’s clothes were no longer hanging against the wall where his working-shirts and overalls were kept. Then Sandy looked under the bed. His father’s old suit-case was not there either, nor his work-shoes, nor his Sunday patent-leathers. And the guitar was missing.

“Where’s papa?” he asked again, running back to the kitchen.

“Can’t you see he ain’t here?” replied his grandmother, busily turning slices of egg-plant with great care in the skillet. “Gone—that’s where he is—a lazy nigger. Told me to tell Annjee he say goodbye, ’cause his travellin’ blues done come on . . . ! Huh! Jimboy’s yo’ pappy, chile, but he sho ain’t worth his salt! . . . an’ I’s right glad he’s took his clothes an’ left here, maself.”

XII. HARD WINTER

September passed and the corn-stalks in the garden were cut. There were no more apples left on the trees, and chilly rains came to beat down the falling leaves from the maples and the elms. Cold and drearily wet October passed, too, with no hint of Indian summer or golden forests. And as yet there was no word from the departed Jimboy. Annjee worried herself sick as usual, hoping every day that a letter would come from this wandering husband whom she loved. And each night she hurried home from Mrs. Rice’s, looked on the parlor table for the mail, and found none. Harriett had not written, either, since she went away with the carnival, and Hager never mentioned her youngest daughter’s name. Nor did Hager mention Jimboy except when Annjee asked her, after she could hold it no longer: “Are you sure the mail-man ain’t left me a letter today?” And then Aunt Hager would reply impatiently: “You think I’d a et it if he did? You know that good-for-nothin’, upsettin’ scoundrel ain’t wrote!”

But in spite of daily disappointments from the postal service Annjee continued to rush from Mrs. Rice’s hot kitchen as soon after dinner as she could and to trudge through the chill October rains, anxious to feel in the mail-box outside her door, then hope against hope for a letter inside on the little front-room table—which would always be empty. She caught a terrible cold tramping through the damp streets, forgetting to button her cloak, then sitting down with her wet shoes on when she got home, a look of dumb disappointment in her eyes, too tired and unhappy to remove her clothes.

“You’s a fool,” said her mother, whose tongue was often much sharper than the meaning behind it. “Mooning after a worthless nigger like Jimboy. I tole you years ago he were no good, when he first come, lookin’ like he ought to be wearin’ short pants, an’ out here courtin’ you. Ain’t none o’ them bell-hoppin’, racehoss-followin’ kind o’ darkies worth havin’, an’ all that’s all Jimboy was when you married him an’ he ain’t much mo’n that now. An’ you older’n he is, too!”