Taylor stirred in her seat under an involuntary impulse to help, but Cresswell touched the horse.
“All right, Uncle Jim,” he said; “we’ll look it over tomorrow.”
They turned presently to where they could see the Cresswell oaks waving lazily in the sunlight and the white gleam of the pillared “Big House.”
A pause at the Cresswell store, where Mr. ¬ÝCresswell entered, afforded Mary Taylor an opportunity further to extend her fund of information.
“Do you go to school?” she inquired of the black boy who held the horse, her mien sympathetic and interested.
“No, ma’am,” he mumbled.
“What’s your name?”
‚ÄúBuddy‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôse one of Aunt Rachel‚Äôs chilluns.‚Äù
“And where do you live, Buddy?”
“I lives with granny, on