For it had been the will of God that they should hear, and pass thereafter, one to another, the story of the Hebrew children who had been held in bondage in the land of Egypt; and how the Lord had heard their groaning, and how His heart was moved; and how He bid them wait but a little season till He should send deliverance. Florence’s mother had known this story, so it seemed, from the day that she was born. And while she lived - rising in the morning before the sun came up, standing and binding in the fields when the sun was high, crossing the fields homeward while the sun went down at the gates of Heaven far away, hearing the whistle of the foreman and his eerie cry across the fields; in the whiteness of the winter when hogs and turkeys and geese were slaughtered, and lights burned bright in the big house, and Bathsheba, the cook, sent over in the napkin bits of ham and chicken and cakes left over by the white folks - in all that befell: in her joys, her pipe in the evening, her man at night, the children she suckled, and guided on their first short steps; and in their tribulations, death, and parting, and the lash, she did not forget that deliverance was promised and would surely come. She had only to endure and trust in God. She knew that the big house, the house of pride where the white folks lived, would come down: it was written in the Word of God.  They, who walked so proudly now, had not fashioned themselves or their children so sure a foundation as hers. They walked on the edge of a steep place and their eyes were sightless - God would cause them to rush down, as the herd of swine had once rushed down, into the sea. For all that they were so beautiful, and took their ease, she knew them, and she pitied them, who would have no covering in the great day of his Wrath.    Â
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