"Don't say it!" exclaimed Letitia with a laugh. "But we just want not to

hurt his feelings and--"

"We won't," I said grimly. "Now let's talk about the ball out at the

Club we are going to give Nickols when he comes down the first of May."

"That's just what I mean. I knew you'd understand and I am so relieved

that you are not angry about the chapel and things. We can leave it all

to you and we'll have the times of our lives. Billy Harvey says his

ankles are getting stiff, it's been so long since he has fox-trotted. Do

call Mammy or Sallie and let's look at your clothes." With which Letitia

descended from her spiritual heights into the realm of the material and

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plunged with both Mammy and Sallie into a riot of clothes.

For an hour or two I lay back in my pillows and watched the two black

women and the white one indulge in primitive decorative orgies, and from

their delight my eyes would glance out and fix themselves wistfully on

the dim line of Paradise Ridge which was cut by the square steeple of

weathered stone just where Old Harpeth humps itself up above the rest of

the Ridge; and something sore and angry and trapped hurt under my

breast.

"The earth is the Lord's--" chanted itself in my mind to the tune of

"Drink to me only," and my hand curled around the letter under my pillow

as if for comfort and--defense.

"It is just as you told me that night at the piano, Nickols dear:

'Religion is the most potent form of intoxication known to the human

race,' and apparently all my friends have been getting the drink habit

badly. I'll rescue the poor dears and have an interesting time doing

it," I said to myself after Letitia had departed with my most choice

millinery creation fastened down upon her sleek braids because she found

she could not live without it.

And then a strange thing happened, as I lay prone between the

lavender-scented sheets spread on the four-poster bed of my foremothers,

ready to drift off into another "bone resting" nap. The flood of tears

that had risen from my heart when I had sat that night a week ago and

listened to that remarkable little baseball evangelist, the tide of

which had been rolled back when Nickols had bent his beautiful dark head

against mine in Aunt Clara's music room and whispered above the roar of

New York, "religion is the most potent form of intoxication" to me,

again welled from my heart and this time flooded my lashes and my cheek

and my pillow. What was strangest of all, they seemed to wash away all

the tears of anger and fear that I had been pressing back into my depths

from breakfast time, and left me weak and again ready for sleep. And

like a comforted little child, I slept.




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