“And where do you live, Buddy?”
“I lives with granny, on de upper place.”
“Well, I’ll see Aunt Rachel and ask her to send you to school.”
‚ÄúWon‚Äôt do no good‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe done ast, and Mr. ¬ÝCresswell, he say he ain‚Äôt going to have no more of his niggers‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
But Mr. ¬ÝCresswell came out just then, and with him a big, fat, and greasy black man, with little eyes and soft wheedling voice. He was following Cresswell at the side but just a little behind, hat in hand, head aslant, and talking deferentially. Cresswell strode carelessly on, answering him with good-natured tolerance.
The black man stopped with humility before the trap and swept a profound obeisance. Cresswell glanced up quizzically at Miss Taylor.
‚ÄúThis,‚Äù he announced, ‚Äúis Jones, the Baptist preacher‚ÅÝ‚Äîbegging.‚Äù
‚ÄúAh, lady,‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîin mellow, unctuous tones‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know what we poor black folks would do without Mr. ¬ÝCresswell‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Lord bless him,‚Äù said the minister, shoving his hand far down into his pocket.
Shortly afterward they were approaching the Cresswell Mansion, when the young man reined in the horse.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he suggested, “I could introduce my sister to you.”
“I should be delighted,” answered Miss Taylor, readily.
When they rolled up to the homestead under its famous oaks the hour was past one. The house was a white oblong building of two stories. In