"What do you think of her, Dan?" Bob asked as we drove toward home. "Tell me exactly what you think."

"She is beautiful, sir," I replied, "but somehow her features refuse to remain with me."

"They remain with me—black eyes, black hair, rose-leaf ears. She is an oration of the ancients set forth in nineteenth century flesh and blood."

"Yes, sir," I assented, with my mind on the old man, "but I don't think much of her stock, as Mr. Clem might say."

He snatched the lines from me, lashed the horse to a fierce trot, and looked at me as I sat with my hands fallen in idle submission. "Dan, what's the matter with you? You are getting to be a d—— cynic. Don't like her stock! I suppose you mean her father? He has had to work his way, no doubt, and may not have read as many fine books as certain fellows who have been pampered, but he is a gentleman. Do you hear me?" He lashed the horse. "Do you hear what I say?"

"If you say he is a gentleman, he is, Mars. Bob."

"But why the devil don't you make discoveries of your own?"

"I do, but I have not found the North Pole."

"What do you mean by that? Mean that as a gentleman Mr. Potter is a North Pole to you and is therefore beyond your discovery? Is that what you mean?"

At this instant my wretchedness must have smitten him. He pulled the horse back to a walk; he laid his hand upon mine, limp in my lap, and said: "Dan, I was a brute to talk that way when you've been so sick. You are right. The old fellow is as ignorant as a boar but love poured a basket of flowers over him. Please don't try to apologize—I'd rather you'd hit me than to do that. Yes, the old man is ignorant and coarse but the girl is intelligent and refined. Look there," he added, pointing with his buggy whip, "you see a flower with a weed as its parent. The weed has done some good, for it has brought forth the flower, and after all it must have held an unconscious refinement. Here, you take the lines and drive, just as you were doing back there, and don't think of what I said. Now, you see, we are going along just as if nothing had happened."

The fire and the tenderness of that boy! A passion almost mad, and a gentleness nearly as soft as a young mother's religion, seeking to possess him! I felt even then that he was not fitted to grapple with stern success. Was intuition preparing me for a trial to come, a struggle waiting down the mystic road? Nature may seem to mock her own endeavors, but I believe she creates with a purpose, though the purpose may remain hidden until the end. Nature is pressed upon our many moods, and one mood may strive to pull down the work wrought by another mood. One bent of nature must have had a glorious career marked out for Young Master, though another bent—but of this I will not speak. It is bad enough that it should be told in even the proper place.

That day for dinner there were several guests, among them old 'Squire Boyle, now grown quite feeble. I had been permitted to leave off the service of standing behind Young Master's chair, but on occasions my help was really needed, so I took my old place in the dining-room. It was not expected that even this little gathering could be wholly at peace with itself. There was a rumble, North and South and disputatious vapors floated in the air. And reason, among the party leaders, had given way to fierce gesticulation, and a strife to say something, not to convince but to cut an adversary. I remember that old man Boyle paused with his mouth full of a turkey's white meat to listen to a remark made by Old Master.

"Sir," said the 'squire, after swallowing as if his absorption had dried his throat, "the institutions of this country are tottering, and cool reason alone can prop them."

"And that's exactly what the South won't listen to," Mr. Clem spoke up. "The South wants to block the humane progress of the world. She is not satisfied with her present unhealthful domain, but wants to shove her slave territory into new lands. Reason's voice is but the squeak of a mouse, sir. They can hear nothing but the roar of a lion, and by G——, sir, they want to be the lion."

"Clem," said Old Miss, "you forget where you are. You are not trading horses on the turn-pike, you are seated at my table."

"Hanna, that's a fact, I am at your table; and I reckon that I'm the first one that ever paid his way here."

"Oh, speaking of horses," interrupted the 'squire with a squeak, "reminds me, Clem, that the one I got of you ain't worth his weight in last year's bird-nests."

"What?" Mr. Clem cried, "I am astonished at you."

"Yes, sir, and I was astonished at him; wouldn't pull a settin' turkey off her nest; lies down in the traces like he wants to go to sleep."

"Why, of course," Mr. Clem shouted. "You have profaned a fine saddle horse. He's not intended to pull; he's intended for a gentleman to ride, sir."

"But didn't you tell me that he was a wheel horse and would pull till both eyes popped out?"

"Oh, no; I said I would rather have him than any wheel horse that would pull that blindly. Saddle horses, you know, are of a higher grade."

"I was in hopes so, sir, and I thought I would try to ride this one, but blast me if he didn't try to shake me off him right into the creek!"

"Oh," said Mr. Clem, "I forgot to tell you that he used to travel with a circus. Yes, sir, and an actor used to stand on him to jump headlong into a tank of water, and he was taught to shake himself to announce his readiness for the leap—"

"But he laid down with me, sir."

"Yes, and I was going to say, that a part of his duty was to go into the tank after the actor. A fact, Bob," he added, nodding at Young Master, who had begun to laugh at him. "Horses, you know, are taught to do most anything. Yes, sir, but getting back to the question of unrest now so strongly marked throughout the country, I want to say that something is going to happen and happen blunt, too. No human government can long stand the internal pullings and haulings that this one is subjected to."

"But what is going to be done?" Old Master cried.

Mr. Clem shrugged his shoulders. "Something is going to pop pretty soon and pop like a whip," said he. "A glass house is going to be broken and hoar frost will gather on leaves never intended for the chill air. The whole trouble comes from slavery and I, for one, am bold enough to say that the end is surely not far off."

"I don't want you to say it at my table, sir," Old Master almost fiercely shouted. "I don't want you to talk treason at my board."

Not in the least was Mr. Clem offended, nor was he at all put out by Old Master's violence. "Guilford," said he, "the trouble is that the South has got the negro mixed up with its religion and with its notion of good government. To own a slave no longer stops at the possession of a piece of property, but becomes so much of a sentiment that the man who does not care to own one is looked upon as an outlaw. And if he declares that he would not own one, that his conscience is against it, he is put down as a traitor to the South, seeking to overturn the American government."

Old Miss threw up her head and sniffed the unsavory air. "Clem," she said, "I don't want you to talk that way in the presence of my son. Why, it wouldn't astonish me to hear you say that a negro is as good as a white man!"

'Squire Boyle listened with his fork raised and his mouth half open. He had long been suspected of holding the views of the abolitionists; it was known that he had favored Henry Clay's scheme for gradual emancipation. He had been studiedly discreet, but being by birth a Northern man, suspicion naturally turned an eye upon him. Sometimes when he must have felt that his silence was eating him like an internal cancer, he had come to Old Master to be bold with healthful utterances, but of late, as the country became more deeply stirred, Old Master warned him to swallow rapidly whenever he felt a strong disposition to talk upon the subject of abolition. And now he swallowed with such vigor and rapidity that a stranger to the precaution placed upon his speech must surely have thought that he was choking to death.

"'Squire, did you swallow something the wrong way?" Mr. Clem asked, leaning over toward him.

"No, something wants to come up the right way," the 'squire piped, the red Adam's apple at his thin throat dodging like a wood-pecker. "I want to say something, but I won't. But the time will come when I will stand on a hill—I've got it picked out—and bawl what I think. Guilford, you are fixing to scold me, sir, and I must ask you not to say a word."

Old Master laughed at this, the old 'squire's desperate threat of rebellion, and had taken up a bit of bread to roll his customary bolus, when yellow Sam, who had been sent to town, came in with a letter. Old Miss began at once to speculate as to whom it could be from, and Old Master, winking at Bob and looking at her as he wiped his glasses, said that he supposed he could put the letter under his plate and wonder a long time as to the identity of the writer. "But happily," said he, again winking his mischievous eye, "we are provided with means whereby we can cut through all speculation and get at once into the heart and the truth of the subject. To be brief," he added, "we can open the letter."

"Well, for goodness sake, why don't you?" his wife broke in, as she always did when she saw him indulging a droll humor. "Give it to me."

"Oh, no," he laughed, putting back her hand. "There may be secrets in this epistle that belong alone to the great free-masonry of men."

"And your organization is shameful enough," she said, not without a show of ill-temper (for any allusion to an understanding in which she was not included always appeared to cut her). "But I must acknowledge its rare perfection as an organization," she went on. "Its devotees do not have to be sworn, unless nature swears them at birth."

By this time the single leaf of the letter was shaking under Old Master's gaze. "Read it," he said huskily, handing it to Bob. And he bowed his head over the table. The note was from Miss May. It told us that her husband was dead, and that she, with her little child, was about to start for home.