John Taylor had written to his sister. He wanted information, very
definite information, about Tooms County cotton; about its stores, its
people--especially its people. He propounded a dozen questions, sharp,
searching questions, and he wanted the answers tomorrow. Impossible!
thought Miss Taylor. He had calculated on her getting this letter
yesterday, forgetting that their mail was fetched once a day from the
town, four miles away. Then, too, she did not know all these matters and
knew no one who did. Did John think she had nothing else to do? And
sighing at the thought of to-morrow's drudgery, she determined to
consult Miss Smith in the morning.

Miss Smith suggested a drive to town--Bles could take her in the
top-buggy after school--and she could consult some of the merchants and
business men. She could then write her letter and mail it there; it
would be but a day or so late getting to New York.

"Of course," said Miss Smith drily, slowly folding her napkin, "of
course, the only people here are the Cresswells."

"Oh, yes," said Miss Taylor invitingly. There was an allurement about
this all-pervasive name; it held her by a growing fascination and she
was anxious for the older woman to amplify. Miss Smith, however,
remained provokingly silent, so Miss Taylor essayed further.

"What sort of people are the Cresswells?" she asked.

"The old man's a fool; the young one a rascal; the girl a ninny," was
Miss Smith's succinct and acid classification of the county's first