"They're beginning to plough up the land for the cotton-crop," he
explained.

"What a wonderful crop it is!" Mary had fallen pensive.

"Yes, indeed--if only we could get decent returns for it."

"Why, I thought it was a most valuable crop." She turned to him
inquiringly.

"It is--to Negroes and manufacturers, but not to planters."

"But why don't the planters do something?"

"What can be done with Negroes?" His tone was bitter. "We tried to
combine against manufacturers in the Farmers' League of last winter. My
father was president. The pastime cost him fifty thousand dollars."

Miss Taylor was perplexed, but eager. "You must correspond with my
brother, Mr. Cresswell," she gravely observed. "I'm sure he--" Before
she could finish, an overseer rode up. He began talking abruptly, with a
quick side-glance at Mary, in which she might have caught a gleam of
surprised curiosity.

"That old nigger, Jim Sykes, over on the lower place, sir, ain't showed
up again this morning."

Cresswell nodded. "I'll drive by and see," he said carelessly.

The old man was discovered sitting before his cabin with his head in