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 answered shortly:
“Georgia, ma’am,” and was silent.
The girl tried again.
‚ÄúGeorgia is a large State,‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîtentatively.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you going back there when you finish?”
“I don’t know.”
‚ÄúI think you ought to‚ÅÝ‚Äîand work for your people.‚Äù
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stopped, puzzled, and looked about. The old horse jogged lazily on, and Bles switched him unavailingly. Somehow she had missed the way