or any of the old carved panelling. Even the woodwork was gone; and the walls and chimney breast were bare and maimed and covered with black cobwebs where the panelling, the cornice, and the mantel had been ripped out—ripped out and sold. There was nothing beyond those doors—nothing but a pile of Irish potatoes on an old cracker sack in the middle of the cypress floor. I sat perfectly still, a sick and dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach.
The old colored woman bent painfully down and started putting potatoes in her basket tray. I kept thinking, over and over, Jennifer didn’t want me to come, and this is why . . . but her mother did want me to come—and why did she? The first was clear. The second was not only not clear; it was profoundly disturbing. Did she know . . . or did she only guess?
Then suddenly I heard Jennifer’s quick step sounding and echoing in the empty house. The girl who was saving the treasures of Strawberry Hill for herself was coming back.
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