d to get it picked right off," he suggested.

"It's all picked, sir."

"But where is it?"

"If you'll send a wagon, sir--"

But the Colonel hardly waited.

"Here you, Jim, take the big mules and drive like--Where's that wench?"

But Zora was already striding on ahead, and was far up the red road when
the great mules galloped into sight and the long whip snapped above
their backs. The Colonel was still excited.

"That cotton must be ours, Harry--all of it. And see that none is
stolen. We've got no contract with the wench, so don't dally with her."
But Harry said firmly, quietly:

"It's fine cotton, and she raised it; she must be paid well for it."
Colonel Cresswell glanced at him with something between contempt and
astonishment on his face.

"You go along with the ladies," Harry added; "I'll see to this cotton."
Mary Taylor's smile had rewarded him; now he must get rid of his
company--before Zora returned.

It was dark when the cotton came; such a load as Cresswell's store had
never seen before. Zora watched it weighed, received the cotton checks,
and entered the store. Only the clerk was there, and he was closing. He
pointed her carelessly to the office in the back part. She went into the
small dim room, and laying the cotton-check on the desk, stood waiting.
Slowly the hopelessness and bitterness of it all came back in a great
whelming flood. What was the use of trying for anything? She was lost
forever. The world was against her, and again she saw the fingers of
Elspeth--the long black claw-like talons that clutched and dragged her
down--down. She did not struggle--she dropped her hands listlessly,
wearily, and stood but half conscious as the door opened and Mr. Harry
Cresswell entered the dimly lighted room. She opened her eyes. She had
expected his father. Somewhere way down in the depths of her nature the
primal tiger awoke and snarled. She was suddenly alive from hair to
finger tip. Harry Cresswell paused a second and swept her full length
with his eye--her profile, the long supple line of bosom and hip, the
little foot. Then he closed the door softly and walked slowly toward
her. She stood like stone, without a quiver; only her eye followed the
crooked line of the Cresswell blue blood on his marble forehead as she
looked down from her greater height; her hand closed almost caressingly
on a rusty poker lying on the stove nearby; and as she sensed the hot
breath of him she felt herself purring in a half