other
being at the moment suggestively lowered.

"Was she pretty?" he asked; but his son ignored the remark, and the
father continued:

"I had a telegram from Taylor this morning, after you left. He'll be
passing through Montgomery the first of next month, and proposes
calling."

"I'll wire him to come," said Harry, promptly.

At this juncture the door opened and a young lady entered. Helen
Cresswell was twenty, small and pretty, with a slightly languid air.
Outside herself there was little in which she took very great interest,
and her interest in herself was not absorbing. Yet she had a curiously
sweet way. Her servants liked her and the tenants could count on her
spasmodic attentions in time of sickness and trouble.

"Good-morning," she said, with a soft drawl. She sauntered over to her
father, kissed him, and hung over the back of his chair.

"Did you get that novel for me, Harry?"--expectantly regarding her
brother.

"I forgot it, Sis. But I'll be going to town again soon."

The young lady showed that she was annoyed.

"By the bye, Sis, there's a young lady over at the Negro school whom I
think you'd like."

"Black or white?"

"A young lady, I said. Don't be sarcastic."

"I heard you. I did not know whether you were using our language or
others'."

"She's really unusual, and seems to understand things. She's planning to
call some day--shall you be at home?"

"Certainly not, Harry; you're crazy." And she strolled out to the porch,
exchanged some remarks with a passing servant, and then nestled
comfortably into a hammock. She helped herself to a chocolate and called
out musically:

"Pa, are you going to town today?"

"Yes, honey."

"Can I go?"

"I'm going in an hour or so, and business at the bank will keep me until
after lunch."

"I don't care, I just must go. I'm clean out of anything to read. And I
want to shop and call on Dolly's friend--she's going soon."

"All right. Can you be ready by eleven?"

She considered.

"Yes--I reckon," she drawled, prettily swinging her foot and watching
the tree-tops above the distant swamp.

Harry Cresswell, left alone, rang the bell for the butler.

"Still thinking of going, are you, Sam?" asked Cresswell, carelessly,
when the servant appeared. He was a young, light-brown boy, his manner
obsequious.

"Why, yes, sir--if you can spare me."

"Spare you, you black rascal! You're going anyhow. Well, you'll repent
it; the North is no place for nigg