Many came to see Zora's twin bales, as they lay, handling
them and questioning, while Colonel Cresswell grew proud of his
possession.
The world was going well with the Colonel. Freed from money cares,
praised for his generalship in the cotton corner, able to entertain
sumptuously, he was again a Southern gentleman of the older school, and
so in his envied element. Yet today he frowned as he stood poking
absently with his cane at the baled Fleece.
This marriage--or, rather, these marriages--were not to his liking. It
was a _mesalliance_ of a sort that pricked him tenderly; it savored
grossly of bargain and sale. His neighbors regarded it with
disconcerting equanimity. They seemed to think an alliance with
Northern millions an honor for Cresswell blood, and the Colonel thumped
the nearer bale vigorously. His cane slipped along the iron bands
suddenly, and the old man lurching forward, clutched in space to save
himself and touched a human hand.
Zora, sitting shadowed on the farther bale, drew back her hand quickly
at the contact, and started to move away.
"Who's that?" thundered the Colonel, more angry at his involuntary
fright than at the intrusion. "Here, boys!"
But Zora had come forward into the space where the sunlight of the wide
front doors poured in upon the cotton bales.
"It's me, Colonel," she said.
Pages:
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227