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.
"It's positively squalid!" cried Betty, with a little stamp of
her foot.
Ware glanced about with dull eyes. The air of neglect and decay
which was everywhere visible, and which was such a shock to
Betty, had not been reached in a season, he was really convinced
that the place looked pretty much as it had always looked.
"I'll tell you, Betty, I'm busy this morning; you poke about and
see what you want done and we'll do it," he said, and made a
hasty retreat to his office, a little brick building at the other
side of the house.
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