This thought, personal to her father, was immediately dismissed in the
feeling for a possibly murdered husband. If the idea barely touched her
sense of self, that her tremendous sacrifice had been arrested by
Heaven, and her purity saved between the altar and the nuptials by the
bloodshed of her purchaser at the hands of some meaner avenger, though
not until she had redeemed her father from Milburn's clutch, this idea
never passed beyond the portal of her mind; she repulsed it, entering,
and began to think of the easy prey her husband might have been, hated
by so many, defended by none, known to be very rich, no loss to the
community, as it might think, in its financial ignorance, and his only
guard a stalwart negro notorious for fighting.
Believing Milburn to deserve better than his present fame, Vesta
advanced towards the door of the old wooden store with a spirit of
commiseration and awe, and still the wild bird from somewhere poured out
a shriek, a chuckle, a hurrah, enough to turn her blood to ice.
As Vesta pushed open the old, seasoned door it dragged along the floor,
and the loose iron bar and padlock, dropping down, made a ring that
brought an echo like a tomb's out of the hollow interior.
"'Deed, Miss Vessy, I'm 'fraid to go in there," Virgie said.
"You are not to come in till I call you. But hear that bird rioting in
song! Does Mr. Milburn keep birds?"
"I can't tell, Miss Vessy.
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