“Everything—the place, Tom—Belle Plain! Oh, isn't it beautiful! I had no idea how lovely it was!” cried Betty, as with her eyes still fixed on the distant panorama of woods and water she went down the steps, Tom at her heels—he bet she'd get sick of it all soon enough, that was one comfort!
“Why, Tom! Why does the lawn look like this?”
“Like what?” inquired Tom.
“Why, this—all weeds and briers, and the paths overgrown?” and as Betty surveyed the unkempt waste that had once been a lawn, a little frown fixed itself on her smooth brow.
Mr. Ware rubbed his chin reflectively with the back of his hand.
“That sort of thing looked all right, Bet,” he said, “but it kept five or six of the best hands out of the fields right at the busiest time of the year.”
“Haven't I slaves enough?” she asked.
The dull color crept into Ware's cheeks. He hated her for that “I!” So she was going to come that on him, was she? And he'd worked himself like a horse to bring in more land. Why, he'd doubled the acreage in cotton and corn in the last four years! He smothered his sense of hurt and indignation.
“Don't you want to see the crops, Bet? Let me order a team and show you about, you couldn't walk over the place in a week!” he urged.
The girl shook her head and moved swiftly down the path that led from terrace to terrace to the margin of the bayou. At the first terrace she paused. All below was a wilderness of tangled vines and brush. She faced Tom rather piteously. What had been lost was more than he could possibly understand. Her father had planned these grounds which he was allowing a riotous second growth to swallow up.