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 niggers. See here, I want lunch for two at one o'clock." The directions that followed were explicit and given with a particularity that made Sam wonder. "Order my trap," he finally directed.
Cresswell went out on the high-pillared porch until the trap appeared.
"Oh, Harry! I wanted to go in the trap—take me?" coaxed his sister.
"Sorry, Sis, but I'm going the other way."
"I don't believe it," said Miss Cresswell, easily, as she settled down to another chocolate. Cresswell did not take the trouble to reply.
Miss Taylor was on her morning walk when she saw him spinning down the road, and both expressed surprise and pleasure at the meeting.
"What a delightful morning!" said the school-teacher, and the glow on her face said even more.