"Only, if they cared, I should think they would have something
nicer," I said. "Where do they all go to church, Preston?"
"Who?" said Preston.
"These people?"
"What people? The families along the river, do you mean?"
"No, no," said I; "I mean _our_ people — these people; the
hands. You say there are hundreds of them. Where do they go to
church?"
I faced Preston now in my eagerness; for the little board
crosses and the forlorn look of the whole burying ground on
the side of the hill had given me a strange feeling.
"Where do they go to church, Preston?"
"Nowhere, I reckon."
I was shocked, and Preston was impatient. How should he know,
he said; he did not live at Magnolia. And he carried me off.
We went back to the avenue and slowly bent our steps again
towards the house; slowly, for I was tired, and we both, I
think, were busy with our thoughts. Presently I saw a man, a
negro, come into the avenue a little before us with a bundle
of tools on his back. He went as slowly as we, with an
indescribable, purposeless gait.
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