The following morning, after spending a restless, troublous night in reflecting over the protestations and threats of Langdon Chester, Virginia went frequently to the rear door of the house and looked out towards Ann Boyd’s domicile in the hope of seeing her new friend. It was a cool, bleak day. The skies were veiled in thin, low-hanging, gray clouds which seemed burdened with snow, and sharp gusts of wind bore the smoke from the chimney down to the earth and around the house in lingering, bluish wisps. Finally her fitful watch met its reward, and she saw Ann emerge from her house and trudge down towards the cotton-field between the two farms. Hastily looking into the kitchen, and seeing that her mother was busily engaged mashing some boiled sweet-potatoes into a pulpy mixture of sugar, butter, and spices, with which to make some pies, Virginia slipped out of the house and into the cow-lot. Here she paused for a moment, her glance on the doorway through which she had passed, and then, seeing that her leaving had not attracted her mother’s attention, she climbed over the rail-fence and entered the dense thicket near by. Through this tangle of vines, bushes, and briers she slowly made her way, until, suddenly, the long, regular rows of Ann’s dead cotton-stalks, with their empty boles and withered leaves, stretched out before her. And there stood Ann, crumbling a sample of the gray soil in her big, red hand. She heard Virginia’s approach over the dry twigs of the wood, and looked up. "Oh, it’s you!" she exclaimed. "I didn’t know but what it was another catamount that had got out of its beat up in the mountains and strayed down into civilization." "I happened to see you leave your house and come this way," Virginia said, somewhat embarrassed, "and so I—" "Yes, I came down here to take one more look at this field and make up my mind whether to have it turned under for wheat or try its strength on cotton again. There was a lots of fertilizer put on this crop, child. I can always tell by the feel of the dirt. That’s the ruination of farming interests in the South. It’s the get-a-crop-quick plan that has no solid foundation. An industrious German or Irishman can make more off of an acre than we can off of ten, and be adding value to the property each year. But did you want to see me about—anything particular?" "It seems like I’m born to have trouble," Virginia answered, with heightening color and a studious avoidance of the old woman’s keen glance. "I see; I reckon your mother—" "No, it’s not about her," Virginia interrupted. "In fact, it’s something that I could not confide in her."