I know
who's back of this--it's that nigger we saw talking to the white woman
in the field the other day."
"Well, don't work yourself up. The wench don't amount to much anyhow. By
the way, though, if you do go to the school it won't hurt to see this
Taylor's sister and size the family up."
"Pshaw! I'm going to give the Smith woman such a scare that she'll keep
her hands off our niggers." And Harry Cresswell rode away.
Mary Taylor had charge of the office that morning, while Miss Smith,
shut up in her bedroom, went laboriously over her accounts. Miss Mary
suddenly sat up, threw a hasty glance into the glass and felt the back
of her belt. It was--it couldn't be--surely, it was Mr. Harry Cresswell
riding through the gateway on his beautiful white mare. He kicked the
gate open rather viciously, did not stop to close it, and rode straight
across the lawn. Miss Taylor noticed his riding breeches and leggings,
his white linen and white, clean-cut, high-bred face. Such apparitions
were few about the country lands. She felt inclined to flutter, but
gripped herself.
"Good-morning," she said, a little stiffly.
Mr. Cresswell halted and stared; then lifting the hat which he had
neglected to remove in crossing the hall, he bowed in stately grace.
Miss Taylor was no ordinary picture. Her brown hair was almost golden;
her dark eyes shone blue; her skin was clear and healthy, and her white
dress--happy coincidence!--had been laundered that very morning.
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