aylor had written to his sister. He wanted information, very
definite information, about Tooms County cotton; about its stores, its
people--especially its people. He propounded a dozen questions, sharp,
searching questions, and he wanted the answers tomorrow. Impossible!
thought Miss Taylor. He had calculated on her getting this letter
yesterday, forgetting that their mail was fetched once a day from the
town, four miles away. Then, too, she did not know all these matters and
knew no one who did. Did John think she had nothing else to do? And
sighing at the thought of to-morrow's drudgery, she determined to
consult Miss Smith in the morning.

Miss Smith suggested a drive to town--Bles could take her in the
top-buggy after school--and she could consult some of the merchants and
business men. She could then write her letter and mail it there; it
would be but a day or so late getting to New York.

"Of course," said Miss Smith drily, slowly folding her napkin, "of
course, the only people here are the Cresswells."

"Oh, yes," said Miss Taylor invitingly. There was an allurement about
this all-pervasive name; it held her by a growing fascination and she
was anxious for the older woman to amplify. Miss Smith, however,
remained provokingly silent, so Miss Taylor essayed further.

"What sort of people are the Cresswells?" she asked.

"The old man's a fool; the young one a rascal; the girl a ninny," was
Miss Smith's succinct and acid classification of the county's first
family; adding, as she rose, "but they own us body and soul." She
hurried out of the dining-room without further remark. Miss Smith was
more patient with black folk than with white.

The sun was hanging just above the tallest trees of the swamp when Miss
Taylor, weary with the day's work, climbed into the buggy beside Bles.
They wheeled comfortably down the road, leaving the sombre swamp, with
its black-green, to the right, and heading toward the golden-green of
waving cotton fields. Miss Taylor lay back, listlessly, and drank the
soft warm air of the languorous Spring. She thought of the golden sheen
of the cotton, and the cold March winds of New England; of her brother
who apparently noted nothing of leaves and winds and seasons; and of the
mighty Cresswells whom Miss Smith so evidently disliked. Suddenly she
became aware of her long silence and the silence of the boy.

"Bles," she began didactically, "where are you from?"

He glanced across at her and a