"Thank you, Miss Ri. I'll be glad to come, but I must go to the office for a few moments. I'll be back, though."
The sun was dropping in the west. Day was almost done for the workers in the packing house near by, from which presently arose a burst of song. Phebe, at her kitchen door, joined in, crooning softly:
"I'se gwine away some o' dese days
'Cross de riber o' Jordan
My Lord, my Lord."
As she sang her gaze fell on the two walking slowly toward the river's brim, the man leaning over the girl, her eyes lifted to his. Suddenly Mammy clapped her hand over her mouth, then she seized her knees, bending double as she chuckled gleefully. "Ain't it de troof, now," she murmured. "She nuvver look dat away at Mr. Jeffs, I say she nuvver. Bless my honey baby." Then she lifted up her voice fairly drowning the rival singers further away as she chanted:
"Dis is de way I long has sought—
Oh, glory hallelujah!
And mo'ned because I found it not—
Oh, glory hallelujah!"
"Phebe," said Miss Ri, suddenly interrupting the singing, "we have got to have the best supper you ever cooked."
"Ain't it de troof, now, Miss Ri," Phebe responded with alacrity. "Dat's thes what I say, dat's thes what I say."
The shadows fell softly, the singers ceased their weird chant. Phebe, too busy conferring with Miss Ri to think of singing, bustled about the kitchen. Berkley and Linda walked slowly to the gate.
"Berk," said the girl, "I wouldn't live anywhere but on this blessed old Eastern Sho' for the world, would you?"
"If you were in the anywhere else, yes," he answered.