It was an intensely hot September night. Magdalna, knowing that sleep was impossible, had not gone to bed. She wandered restlessly about her large room, striving to force a current of air. Not a vibration came through the open windows, nor a sound. The very trees seemed to lean forward with limp hanging arms. Across the stars was a dark veil, riven at long intervals with the copper of sheet lightning. Her room, too, was dark. A light would bring a pest of mosquitoes. The high remote falsetto of several, as it was, proclaimed an impatient waiting for their ally, sleep.
Last night, Tiny had given a party, and wrung from Magdalna a promise that she would go to it. Rose had called for her. At the last moment Magdalna's courage had shrunk to a final shuddering heap, and as she heard the wheels
