"
"For me?" Ricky looked at the offering in surprise. "But what in the
world--Bring it here, Sam."
"Yas'm."
He laid the basket in Ricky's outstretched hands.
"I've never seen anything like this before." She turned it around. "It
seems to be woven of some awfully fine grass--"
"That's swamp work." Charity was peering over Ricky's shoulder. "Open
it."
Inside on a nest of raw wild cotton lay a bracelet of polished wood
carved with an odd design of curling lines which reminded Val of Spanish
moss. And with the circlet was a small purse of scaled hide.
"Swamp oak and baby alligator," burst out Charity. "Aren't they
beauties?"
"But who--" began Ricky.
Val picked up a scrap of paper which had fluttered to the floor. It was
cheap stuff, ruled with faint blue lines, but the writing was bold and
clear: "Miss Richanda Ralestone."
"It's yours all right." He handed her the paper.
"I know." She tucked the note away with the gifts. "It was Jeems."
"Jeems? But why?" her brother protested.
"Well, yesterday when I was down by the levee he was coming in and I
knew that Mr. Creighton was here and I told him. So," she colored
faintly, "then he took me across the bayou and I got some of those big
swamp lilies that I've always wanted. And we had a long talk. Val, Jeems
knows the most wonderful things about the swamps. Do you know that they
still have voodoo meetings sometimes--way back in there," she swept her
hand southward.
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