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good to see you,” she said. Her eyes traveled frankly over his tall figure. “And you’re out riding? My Gawd, it’s good to see a man riding as though there hadn’t been a war.”
    “My Gawd,” the ribald called Molly MacBain. By Gawd and My Gawd.
    John MacBain, watching them, shouted suddenly. “Molly, go and fetch some of the blackberry wine! Pierce has rid half a day—”
    She bustled away, and John closed his eyes. “What I told you, Pierce,” he muttered. “You dassent to tell. She don’t want a soul to know it. I don’t know why I told you. But I felt I had to have a man know it.”
    “Surely I won’t tell,” Pierce promised.
    “Not even your wife,” John said.
    “Nobody,” Pierce promised.
    But he could not forget it. Molly came back with wine and small cakes. “They’re only cornmeal and sweetened with molasses and riz with yeast,” she said in her busy gay voice. “My Gawd, what it will be to have baking powder and sugar! How long will it be, Pierce?”
    “Who knows?” he said. He tasted the wine and bit into a cake. “These are good,” he said politely.
    “Oh, I make do with what I have,” Molly said. She went to John’s cot and pulled a cover straight and Pierce watched them. Should he speak of the twins or should he not? What would be right for Molly—no, for John, for whom he cared far more? He looked across the sunny meadows where the two little boys used to play. They were just toddling around when last he saw them.
    “I am mighty grieved to hear about the boys, Miss Molly,” he said abruptly. The cornmeal cake clogged his throat.
    She turned and stood rigid for an instant. “Thank you—” she said at last. “Thank you kindly, Pierce. But I just—I just can’t think of them.”
    Her small full mouth quivered, and her eyelids glistened. She gave him a look and ran into the house. John closed his eyes and lay rigidly still.
    “If there is anything I could do,” Pierce began.
    “There isn’t, thank you, Pierce,” John did not open his eyes. “We’ve just got to live along—”
    “Yes, I reckon,” Pierce murmured sadly. “Well, John, maybe I could help you with the place, anyway. We’ll be ploughing again this spring, and I could make shift to do some of your fields if you’re short of help.”
    John opened his eyes. “Short—I’m without help!” he cried. “Two old niggers—that’s what’s stayed with us. They can scratch a kitchen garden—that’s all.”
    “Then I’ll rent your land from you, if you like, until you can get up and around once more.”
    “How come you got help?” he demanded.
    “I’m payin’ wages,” Pierce said simply.
    “I ain’t goin’ to take your paid help,” John declared.
    “There’s no other kind to be had, John,” Pierce told him.
    John lifted his head from his pillow. “By Gawd, Pierce—what did we fight the war for, if you’re goin’ to pay niggers?”
    “We lost the war, John—”
    “Not me—I didn’t—so far as I’m concerned, the war is goin’ on forever.”
    The voice was brave, but its hollowness made the words a boast. Pierce did not say what he thought. He had his two sons alive and Malvern must go on in the new times as it had in the old. He picked up his whip and got to his feet.
    “Of course I know how you feel, John,” he said amiably. “And I’m not going to argue with you. I’ve had enough of fighting. I’m going to live in peace—with all men. And if I never set foot on any land except Malvern, I’ll be content. But I’ll farm yours if you want me to—”
    There was a second’s silence. John’s head fell back.
    “Your family all right?” he asked.
    “Yes, they are—I don’t know why I’m lucky,” Pierce said. He tapped his riding boot softly with the crop of his whip. “I thank God,” he added simply.
    “Not many of us got anything left to thank anybody for,” John said bitterly. “But I won’t put my burden on you, Pierce. I reckon I can carry it.”
    “You