Going about now from Beulah Land to the sawmill to the cotton gin, on a horse or in a buggy, he found himself stopping at Oaks often for half or quarter of an hour. Oaks was as busy as Beulah Land, and Leon usually discovered that Bruce Davis was not at home but in the fields with his hands. Edna regularly went into the fields too, to observe for herself the work Bruce would talk about at their noon and evening meals, the only times she had anything like conversation with him during the harvesting. Doreen accompanied her grandmother whenever she caught her setting out, and the old lady took to calling for her as she put a sun bonnet on her head and ventured forth. Young James was busy with his acre, as if the feeding and clothing of a naked, hungry world depended on it. Adam worked long hours every day with Driscoll Proctor.

Leon was only certain, therefore, of finding Annabel at home, usually on the vine-shady porch that ran along two sides of the house, at one end of which might still be seen the ramp that had been built years ago for Benjamin’s wheeled chair after his first stroke. It was too hot for Annabel to walk—no bonnet or parasol could protect that fresh, fair complexion from Georgia’s summer blaze. Taking little pleasure in reading and none in the working of the house or her mind, Annabel was frequently alone and bored, and she welcomed Leon with the more enthusiasm because she well knew his admiration of her face and form.

Although never missing a chance to address Sarah as “aunt,” Annabel dropped the “uncle” in speaking to Leon, using “sir” instead, as a lady of any age might address a gentleman of any age.

“I’m so glad to see you!” Annabel exclaimed whenever Leon hopped off his horse or out of the buggy, securing the reins himself to the railing of the steps to the porch, for in those busy days, no attendant from the stable was provided for visitors. “Hopping” was something Leon did only for Annabel’s benefit. At forty, although vigorous enough, he eased himself down from saddle and stirrups, and stepped carefully from a buggy more often than he hopped. But in Annabel’s company he felt and hoped to appear younger than he was.

Smiling, he would go up the steps and join her on the porch, bowing and saying formally, “Miss Annabel,” before asking if her father was anywhere about the house.

“I expect he’s in one of the far fields,” was her usual reply. “Is there anything particular you have to see him for? If there is, I’ll be glad to send someone—”

“No, nothing you’d call particular, just generally wanting to know how things are going along with his harvesting.”

“Well then, sir, you must make do with a visit with me.”