"Grace is late, as usual," said Rivers to John. "He has, I believe, no acquaintance with minutes and no more conception of time than the angels. Ah! I see him. His table-manners really distress your aunt; but manners are—well, we will leave that to another time. Good evening, Grace."

"Glad to see you, sir," said John.

On a word from Rivers, the guest offered thanks, which somewhat amazed John by its elaborate repetitions.

The stout little preacher, carefully tucking his napkin between his paper shirt-collar and his neck, addressed himself to material illustration of his thankfulness, while the rector observed with a pitiful interest the obvious animal satisfaction of the man. John with more amusement saw the silver fork used for a time and at last abandoned for use of the knife. Unconsciously happier for an unusually good dinner, Grace accepted a tumbler of the Penhallow cider, remarking, "I never take spirits, Rivers, but I suppose cider to be a quite innocent beverage."

Rivers smiled. "It will do you no harm."

"It occurs to me, Rivers," said Grace, "that although wine is mentioned in the Bible, cider is not. There is no warning against its use."

It also occurred to Rivers that there was none against applejack. "Quite right," he said. "You make me think of that scamp, Lamb. McGregor tells me that he is very ill."

"A pity he wouldn't die," remarked the young host, who had indiscreetly taken two full tumblers of old hard cider before Rivers had noticed his unaccustomed use of this rather potent drink.

"You should not desire the death of any man, John," said Grace, "least of all the death of a sinner like Lamb."

"Really," said John with the dignity of just a trifle too much cider, "my phrase did not admit of your construction."

"No," laughed Rivers, seeing it well to intervene, "and yet to say it is a pity may be a kindly wish and leaves it open to charitable interpretation."

"He is quite unprepared to die," insisted Grace, with the clerical intonation which Rivers disliked.

"How do you know that?" asked Rivers.

"I know," said John confidently. "He told me he was a born thief and loved to lie. He was pretty drunk at the time."

"That is too nearly true to be pleasant," remarked Rivers, "'in vino veritas.' The man is a very strange nature. I think he never forgives a benefit. I sometimes think he has no sense of the difference between right and wrong—an unmoral nature, beyond your preaching or mine, Grace, even if he ever gave us a chance."

"I think he is a cruel beast," said John. "I saw him once—"

Rivers interrupted him saying, as he rose, "Suppose we smoke."

With unconscious imitation of the courteous Squire he represented, John said, "We will smoke in the library if you have had enough wine."

Rivers said, "Certainly, Squire," not altogether amused as John, a little embarrassed, said quickly, "I should have said cider."

"Of course, we have had no wine, quite a natural mistake," remarked Grace, which the representative squire felt to be a very disagreeable comment.

"You will find cigars and pipes on the table," said the rector, "and I will join you in a moment." So saying he detained John by a hand on his arm and led him aside as they crossed the hall.

"You are feeling that old hard cider, my boy. You had better go to bed. I should have warned you."

"Yes, sir—I—did not—I mean—I—"

"C'est une diablesse—a little devil. There are others, and worse ones, John. Good-night."

On the stairs the young fellow felt a deepening sense of humiliation and surprise as he became aware of the value of the banister-rail.

Rivers went into the library blaming his want of care, and a little sorry for the lad's evident distress. "What, not smoking, Grace?"

"No, I have given it up."

"But, why?"

"Well, I can't smoke cheap strong tobacco, and I can't afford better stuff."

"Then, be at ease, my friend. The Squire has sent me a large supply. I am to divide with you," which was as near to a fib as the young clergyman ever got in his blameless life.

"I shall thank him," returned Grace simply, "and return to my pipe, but I do sometimes think it is too weak an indulgence of a slavish habit."

"Hardly worth while to thank Penhallow; he will have forgotten all about it."

"But I shall not."

They smoked and talked politics, and the village and their work, until at last, after one of the pipe-filling pauses, Grace said, "I ought not to have taken that cider, but it singularly refreshed me. You did not partake."

"No, it disagrees with me."

"I feel it, Brother Rivers. I feel it slightly, and—I—a man who preaches temperance, total abstinence—"

"My dear Grace, that is not temperance. There may be intemperance in the way a man puts his opinions before others—a man may hurt his own cause—"

Grace returned quickly, "You were in our church Wednesday night—I saw you. You think I was intemperate?"

"Frankly, yes. You were abusive. You are too well self-governed to understand the working-man's temptations. You preached from the heart as you felt, without the charity of the head."

"Perhaps—perhaps," he returned humbly; and then with a quite gentle retort, "Don't you sometimes preach too much from the head, Brother Rivers?"

"Yes, that may be the case. I am conscious sometimes that I lack your power of direct appeal—your personal application of the truth. I ought to preach the first half of the sermon—the appeal to the reason, the head part—and ask you to conclude with the heart share—the personal application of my cold logic."

"Let us try it," said Grace rising and much amused; "cold, Rivers! your cold logic! There is nothing cold in all your nature. Let us go home; we have had a good talk."

As they walked down the avenue Grace said, "What are you doing about Lamb? Is it really wise to talk to him?"

"Just now," said the rector, "he has acquired a temporary conscience in the shape of a congested stomach. I talked to him a little. He is penitent, or says he is, and as his mother is sometimes absent, I have set Billy to care for him; some one must. I have found that to keep Billy on a job you must give him a daily allowance of chewing tobacco; that answers."

"Bad company, Brother Rivers."

"Oh, there is no guile in Billy."

They parted at the Grey Pine gate. Rivers had innocently prepared remote mischief, which by no possible human foresight could he have anticipated. When, walking in the quiet of a lonely wood, a man sets his foot on a dead branch, the far end stirs another, and the motion so transmitted agitates a half dozen feet away the leaves of a group of ferns. The man stops and suspects some little woodland citizen as the cause of the unexplained movement; thus it is in the affairs of life. We do some innocent thing and are puzzled to explain how it brings about remote mischief.

Meanwhile an unendurable craving for drink beset the man Lamb, who was the prey of slowly lessening delusions. Guardian Billy chewed his daily supply of tobacco and sat at the window in the hot second-storey room feeding Lamb with brief phrases concerning what he saw on the street.

"Oh! there go Squire's horses for exercise; Joe's on Lucy."

"Damn Lucy! Do you go to mother's room—"

"What for?"

"Oh, she keeps her money in it, and Mrs. Penhallow paid her in advance the day she left."

"Can't do it," said Billy, who had strict orders not to leave Lamb alone.

"Oh, just look in the top drawer. She keeps a bit of money rolled up in one of her stockings. That will get me a little whisky and you lots of tobacco."

"Can't do it," said Billy. "Want me to steal? Won't do it."

"Then I'll get even with you some day."

Billy laughed. "Why I could lick you—like Mr. John licked the doctor's son. Gosh! there goes Pole's wagon."

Lamb fell to thought of how to get that whisky. The ingenuity of the man who craves alcohol or morphia is sometimes surprising even to the most experienced doctor. The immorality of the means of attainment is never considered. If, as with Lamb, a lie or worse be needed, there is a certain satisfaction in having outwitted nurse and doctor.

On the day after the two clergymen had heard John's final opinion of Lamb, the bed-fast man received his daily visit from his spiritual physician, and the clergyman met at the house door the doctor of the body. "I suppose," said McGregor, "that you and I as concerns this infernal rascal are under orders from Penhallow and his wife. I at least have the satisfaction of being paid—"

"Oh, I am paid, Doctor," the clergyman smiled.

"Of course, any one and every one who serves that very efficient and positive saint, Mrs. Penhallow, is paid. She's too terrifyingly good. It must be—well, inconvenient at times. Now she wants this animal looked after because of Mrs. Lamb; and the squire has some sort of absurd belief that because the same breasts that nursed him nursed our patient, he must befriend the fellow—and he does. Truth is, Rivers, that man's father was a sodden drunkard but, I am told, not otherwise bad. It's a pretty sure doom for the child. This man's body has damned his soul, and now the soul is paying it back in kind."

"The damnation will be settled elsewhere," said Rivers gravely. "You are pleading for him when you say he had a father who drank."

"Well, yes, yes. That is true, but I do confoundedly mistrust him. He never remembers a kindness and never forgets the smallest injury. But when Mrs. Penhallow puts a hand on your arm and you look at her, you just go and do what she wants done. Oh, me too! Let's get out of this unreasonable sun and see this fellow."

Billy was chasing blue-bottle flies on the window panes, and the patient in bed was lying still, flushed, with red eyes. He was slowly recovering from an attack of delirium tremens and reassembling his scattered wits.

"Well," said McGregor, "better, I see. Bugs gone?"

"Yes, sir; but if I had a little, just a nip of whisky to taper off on, I'd be all right."

"Not a drop, Peter."

"I'll die if I don't get it."

"Then die sober."

Peter made no reply. McGregor felt his pulse, made his usual careful examination, and said at last, "Now keep quiet, and in a few days you'll be well."

"For God's sake, give me whisky—a little. I'm so weak I can't stand up."

"No," said McGregor, "it will pass. Now I must go. A word with you, Mr. Rivers." When outside of the room he said, "We must trust Billy, I suppose?"

"Yes, there is no one else."

"That man is giving his whole mind to thinking how he can get whisky. He will lie, cheat, steal, do anything to get it."

"How can he? Neither Billy nor his old mother will help him. He will get well, Doctor, I suppose?"

"Yes, I told him he would. More's the pity. He is a permanent nuisance, up to any wickedness, a hopelessly ruined wild beast."

"Perhaps," said Rivers; "perhaps. Who can be sure of that?" He despaired of no one.

The sadly experienced doctor shook his head. "He will live to do much mischief. The good die young; you may be sure the wicked do not. In some ways the man's case has its droll side. Queer case! in some ways interesting."

"How is it interesting?" said Rivers.

"Oh, what he saw—his delusions when he was at his worst."

"What did he see?"

"Oh, bugs—snakes—the common symptoms, and at last the 'Wilmot Proviso.' Imagine it. He knew no more of that than of the physiology of the man in the moon. He described it as a 'plucked chicken.'"

"I suppose that was a wild contribution from the endless political talk of the town."

"Well, a 'plucked chicken' was not so bad. He saw also 'Bleeding Kansas.' A 'stuck pig' that was; and more—more, but I must go."

Rivers went back to the room. "Here is your tobacco, Billy, and wait downstairs; don't go away."

The big man turned over in bed as the clergyman entered. "Mr. Rivers. I'm bad. I might have died. Won't you pray for me?"

Rivers hesitated, and then fell on his knees at the bedside, his face in his hands. Peter lay still smiling, grimly attentive. As Rivers rose to his feet, Lamb said, "Couldn't I have just a little whisky? Doctors don't always know. I've been in this scrape before, and just a little liquor does help and it don't do any harm. I can't think, I'm so harried inside. I can't even pray, and I want to pray. Now, you will, sir, won't you?"

This mingling of low cunning, of childlike appeal and of hypocrisy, obviously suggested anything but the Christian charity of reply; what should he say? Putting aside angry comment, he fell back upon his one constant resource, What would Christ have said to this sinful man? He stood so long silent by the bed, which creaked as Lamb sat up, that the man's agony of morbid thirst caught from his silence a little hope, and he said, "Now you will, I know."

Rivers made no direct answer. Was it hopeless? He tried to read the face—the too thin straight nose, white between dusky red cheeks, the projecting lower lip, and the lip above it long, the eyes small, red, and eagerly attentive. This was not the time for reason. He said, "I should be your worst enemy, Peter. Every one has been good to you; over and over the Squire has saved you from jail. Mrs. Penhallow asked me to help you. Try to bear what your sin has brought on you, oh! do try. Pray God for help to bear it patiently."

"I'm in hell. What's the use of praying in hell? Get me whisky and I'll pray."

Rivers felt himself to be at the end of his resources, and that the enfeebled mind was incapable of response to any appeal to head or heart. "I will come again," he said. "Good-bye."

"Oh, damn everybody," muttered Peter.

Rivers went out and sent Billy up to take charge. Lamb was still sitting up in bed when Billy returned. The simple fellow poured out in brief sentences small bits of what he had seen at the street door.

"Oh, shut up," said Peter. "The doctor says I'll feel better if I'm shaved—ain't been shaved these three weeks. Doctor wants you to go and get Josiah to come and fix me up to-night. You tell him it's the doctor's orders. Don't you be gone long. I'm kind of lonely."

"All right," said Billy, in the cheerful way which made him a favourite despite his disinclination for steady work.

"Now, don't be gone long. I need a good shave, Billy."

"Guess you do—way you look you wouldn't fetch five cents at one of them rummage-sales. Ain't had but one in four years."

"Oh, get out, Billy." Once rid of his guard he tried in vain to stand up and fell back cursing.

The order from the doctor was to be obeyed. "Guess he's too shaky to shave himself," said Josiah. "I'll come about half-past eight."

As Josiah walked to the far end of the village, he thought in his simple way of his last three years. After much wandering and fear of being traced, he had been used at the stables by Penhallow. That he had been a slave was suspected, but that troubled no one in Westways. He had long felt at ease and safe. He lived alone, a man of some forty years, cooked for himself, and had in the county bank a small amount of carefully saved earnings. He had his likes and dislikes, but he had the prudently guarded tongue of servitude. Long before John Penhallow had understood better the tall black man's position and won the confidence of a friendly hour, he saw with his well-bred courtesy how pleased was the man to be called Mr. Josiah. It sounded queer, as Pole remarked, to call a runaway darkey Mister, but this in no way disturbed John. The friendly feeling for the black grew as they fished together in the summer afternoons, or trapped muskrats, or dug up hellbenders. The barber had one half-concealed dislike. The man he was now to shave he both feared and hated. "Couldn't tell you why, Master John. It's like the way Crocker's wife's 'feared of cats. They ain't never hurt her none."

"Well," he said, "here I am," and in unusual silence set about his work by dim candlelight. The patient was as silent. When Josiah had finished, he said no word of his fee, knowing it to be a hopeless debt.

"Guess you do look the better for a shave," he remarked, as he was about to leave. "I'll send up Billy." The uneasy guardian had seized on the chance to get a little relief.

"No, don't go," said Lamb. "I'm in a hell of thirst. I want you to get me some whisky. I'll pay you when I get work."

Josiah was prudent and had no will to oblige the drunkard nor any belief in future repayment. "Couldn't do that—doctor wouldn't like it."

"What, you won't do it?"

"No, I can't do it."

"If you don't, I'll tell what I know about you."

"What do you know?" The long lost terror returned—but what could he know?

"Oh, you ran away—I know all about it. You help me now and I'll keep quiet—you'd better."

A fierce desire rose in the mind of Josiah to kill the rascal, and then, by long habit prudent, he said, "I'll have to think about it." But what could this man know?

"Best to think damn quick, or you'll have your old master down on you. I give you till to-morrow morning early. Do you hear? It's just a nip of whisky I want."

"Yes, I hear—got to think about it." He went out into the night, a soul in fear. No one knew his former master's name. Then his very good intelligence resumed control. No one really knew—only John—and he very little. He put it aside, confident in the young fellow's discretion. Of course, the town suspected that he was a fugitive slave, but nobody cared or seemed to care. And yet, at times in his altogether prosperous happy years of freedom, when he read of the fugitive-slave act, and he read much, he had disturbing hours. He stood still a moment and crossed the road. The Episcopal church, which he punctually attended, was on Penhallow's land, and near by was the rectory where Mark lived with an old woman cook and some help from Mrs. Lamb. The night was warm, the windows were open, and the clergyman was seen writing. Josiah at the window spoke.

"Excuse me, sir, could I talk to you? I am in a heap of trouble."

"In trouble, Josiah? Come in, the front door is open."

As he entered the rector's study, Rivers said, "Sit down."

Something in the look of the man made him think of hunted animals. "No one else is in the house. What is it?" The black poured out his story.

"So then," said Rivers, "he lied to you about the doctor and threatened you with a lie. Why, Josiah, if he had known who was your master, he would have told you, and whether or not you ran away from slavery is none of his business. Mr. Penhallow believes you did, others suspect it, but no one cares. You are liked and you have the respect of the town. There would be trouble if any man tried to claim you."

"I'd like to tell you all about it, sir."

"No—no—on no account. Tell no one. Now go home. I will settle with that drunken liar."

"Thank you. May God bless—and thank you."

The clergyman sat in thought a while, and the more he considered the matter which he had made light of to the scared black, the less he liked it. He dismissed it for a time as a lie told to secure whisky, but the fear Josiah showed was something pitiful in this strong black giant. He knew Lamb well enough to feel sure that Josiah would now have in him an enemy who was sure in some way to get what he called "even" with the barber, and was a man known and spoken of in Westways as "real spiteful."

When next day Rivers entered the room where Lamb lay abed, he saw at once that he was better. He meant to make plain to a revengeful man that Josiah had friends and that the attempt to blackmail him would be dangerous. Lamb was sitting up in bed apparently relieved, and was reading a newspaper. The moment he spoke Rivers knew that he was a far more intelligent person than the man of yesterday.

Lamb said, "Billy, set a chair for Mr. Rivers. The heat's awful for October." Billy obeyed and stepped out glad to escape.

Rivers said, "No, I won't sit down. I have something to say to you, and I advise you to listen. You lied to Billy about the doctor yesterday, and you tried to frighten Josiah into getting you whisky—you lied to him."

Josiah had not returned, and now it was plain that he had told the clergyman of the threat. Lamb was quick to understand the situation, and the cleverness of his defence interested and for a moment half deceived the rector.

"Who says I lied? Maybe I did. I don't remember. It's just like a dream—I don't feel nowise accountable. If—I—abused Josiah, I'm sorry. He did shave me. Let me think—what was it scared Josiah?" He had the slight frown of a man pursuing a lost memory.

"It is hardly worth while, Peter, to go into the matter if you don't recall what you said." He realized that the defence was perfect. Its too ready arguments added to his disbelief in its truth.

Lamb was now enjoying the game. "Was Josiah really here, sir? But, of course, he was, for he shaved me. I do remember that. Won't you sit down, sir?"

"No, I must go. I am pleased to find you so much better."

"Thank you, sir. I don't want whisky now. I'll be fit for work in a week or so. I wonder what I did say to Josiah?"

This was a little too much for Rivers's patience. "Whatever you said had better never be said again or you will find yourself in very serious trouble with Mr. Penhallow."

"Why, Mr. Rivers, I know I drink, and then I'm not responsible, but how could I say to that poor old darkey what I don't mind I said yesterday?"

"Well, you may chance to remember," said Rivers; "at least I have done my duty in warning you."

"I'd like, sir," returned Lamb, leaning forward with his head bent and uplift of lids over watchful eyes—"Oh, I want you to know how much I thank you, sir, for all your kind—"

"You may credit the Squire for that. Good-bye," and he went out.

Neither man had been in the least deceived, but the honours of the game were with the big man in the bed, which creaked under his weight as he fell back grinning in pleased self-approval. "Damn that black cuss," he muttered, "and the preacher too. I'll make them sorry."

At the outer doorstep Mark Rivers stood still and wiped the sweat from his forehead. There must be minutes in the life of the most spiritually minded clergyman when to bow a little in the Rimmon House of the gods of profane language would be a relief. He may have had the thought, for he smiled self-amused and remembered his friend Grace. Then he took himself to task, reflecting that he should have been more gently kind, and was there not some better mode of approaching this man? Was he not a spirit in prison, as St. Peter said? What right had he with his beliefs to despair of any human soul? Then he dismissed the matter and went home to his uncompleted sermon. He would have to tell the Squire; yes, that would be advisable.

The days at Grey Pine ran on in the routine of lessons, riding, and the pleasure for John of representing his uncle in the oversight of the young thoroughbred colts and the stables. Brief talks with Rivers of books and politics filled the after-dinner hour, and when he left John fell with eagerness on the newspapers of the day. His uncle's mail he forwarded to Pittsburgh, and heard from him that he would not return until mid-October. His aunt would be at home about the 8th, and Leila was now at her school. The boy felt the unaccustomed loneliness, and most of all the absence of Leila. One letter for his aunt lay on the hall table. It came too late to be sent on its way, nor had she asked to have letters forwarded.

Two days before her return was to be expected, when John came down dressed for dinner, he found Mr. Rivers standing with his back to a fire, which the evening coolness of October in the hills made desirable. The rector was smiling.

"Mr. George Grey came just after you went upstairs. It seems that he wrote to your aunt the letter on the table in the hall. As no one met him at Westways Crossing, he was caught in a shower and pretty well soaked before he got some one to bring him to Grey Pine. I think he feels rather neglected."

"Has he never been here before?" asked John, curious in regard to the guest who he thought, from hearing his aunt speak of him, must be a person of importance.

"No, not for a long while. He is only a second cousin of Mrs. Penhallow; but as all Greys are for her—well, the Greys—we must do our best to make it pleasant for him until your aunt and uncle return."

"Of course," said John, with some faint feeling that it was needless to remind him, his uncle's representative, of his duties as the host. Rivers said, smiling, "It may not be easy to amuse Mr. Grey. I did not tell you that your aunt wrote me, she will not be here until the afternoon train on the 9th. Ah! here is Mr. Grey."

John was aware of a neatly built, slight man in middle life, clad in a suit of dark grey. He came down the stairs in a leisurely way. "Not much of a Grey!" thought Rivers, as he observed the clean-shaven face, which was sallow, or what the English once described as olivaster, the eyes small and dark, the hair black and so long as to darkly frame the thin-featured, clean-shaven refinement of a pleasant and now smiling face.

John went across the hall to receive him, saying, "I am John Penhallow, sir. I am sorry we did not know you were to be here to-day."

"It is all right—all right. Rather chilly ride. Less moisture outside and more inside would have been agreeable; in fact, would be at present, if I may take the liberty."

Seeing that the host did not understand him, Rivers said promptly, "I think, John, Mr. Grey is pleasantly reminding us that we should offer him some of your uncle's rye."

"Of course," said John, who had not had the dimmest idea what the Maryland gentleman meant.

Mr. Grey took the whisky slowly, remarking that he knew the brand, "Peach-flavoured, sir. Very good, does credit to Penhallow's taste. As Mr. Clay once remarked, the mellowing years, sir, have refined it."

"Dinner is ready," said John.

There was no necessity to entertain Mr. Grey. He talked at length, what James Penhallow later described as "grown-up prattle." Horses, the crops, and at length the proper methods of fining wine—a word of encouragement from Rivers set him off again. Meanwhile the dinner grew cold on his plate. At last, abruptly conscious of the lingering meal, Mr. Grey said, "This comes, sir, of being in too interesting society."

Was this mere quaint humour, thought Rivers; but when Grey added, "I should have said, sir, too interested company," he began to wonder at the self-absorption of what was evidently a provincial gentleman. At last, with "Your very good health!" he took freely of the captain's Madeira.

Rivers, who sipped a single glass slowly, was about to rise when to his amusement, using his uncle's phrase, John said, "My uncle thinks that Madeira and tobacco do not go well together; you may like to smoke in the library."

Grey remarked, "Quite right, as Henry Clay once said, 'There is nothing as melancholy as the old age of a dinner; who, sir, shall pronounce its epitaph?' That, sir, I call eloquence. No more wine, thank you." As he spoke, he drew a large Cabana from his waistcoat pocket and lighted it from one of the candles on the table.

Rivers remarked, "We will find it warmer in the library."

When the two men settled down to pipe or cigar at the library fire, John, who had felt the role of host rather difficult, was eager to get a look at the Tribune which lay invitingly on the table, and presently caught the eye of Mr. Grey.

"I see you have the Tribune" he said. "A mischief-making paper—devilish. I presume Penhallow takes it to see what the other side has to say. Very wise, sir, that."

Rivers, unwilling to announce his friend's political opinions, said, smiling, "I must leave Mr. Penhallow to account for that wicked journal."

Grey sat up with something like the alert look of a suddenly awakened terrier on his thin face. "I presume the captain (he spoke of him usually as the captain) must be able to control a good many votes in the village and at the iron-works."

"I rather fancy," said Rivers, "that he has taken no active part in the coming election."

"Unnecessary, perhaps. It is, I suppose, like my own county. We haven't a dozen free-soil voters. 'Bleeding Kansas' is a dead issue with us. It is bled to death, politically dead, sir, and buried."

"Not here," said John imprudently. "Uncle James says Buchanan will carry the State by a small majority, but he may not carry this county."

"Then he should see to it," said Grey. "Elect Fremont, my boy, and the Union will go to pieces. Does the North suppose we will endure a sectional President? No, sir, it would mean secession—the death-knell of the Union. Sir, we may be driven to more practical arguments by the scurrilous speeches of the abolitionists. It is an attack on property, on the ownership of the inferior race by the supremely superior. That is the vital question."

He spoke with excitement and gesticulated as if at a political meeting. Mark Rivers, annoyed, felt a strong inclination to box John's ears. He took advantage of the pause to say, "Would you like a little more rye, Mr. Grey?"

"Why, yes, sir. I confess to being a trifle dry. But to resume our discussion—"

"Pardon me. John, ask for the whisky."

To John this was interesting and astonishing. He had never heard talk as wild. The annoyance on Rivers's face was such as to be easily read by the least observant. Elsewhere Mr. Rivers would have had a ready answer, but as Grey sat still a little while enjoying his own eloquence, the fire and the whisky, Rivers's slight negative hint informed John that he was to hold his tongue.

As the clergyman turned to speak to Grey, the latter said, "I wish to add a word more, sir. You will find that the men at the South cling to State rights; if these do not preserve for me and others my property and the right, sir, to take my body-servant to Boston or Kansas, sure that he will be as secure as my—my—shirt-studs, State rights are of no practical use."

"You make it very plain," said Rivers, feeling at last that he must defend his own opinions. "I have myself a few words to say—but, is that all?"

"Not quite—not quite. I am of the belief that the wants of the Southern States should be considered, and the demand for their only possible labour considered. I would re-open the slave-trade. I may shock you, reverend sir, but that is my opinion."

"And, as I observe," said Rivers, "that also of some governors of States." He disliked being addressed as "reverend," and knew how Penhallow would smile when captained.

There was a brief silence, what Rivers used to call the punctuation value of the pipe. The Maryland gentleman was honestly clear in the statement of his political creed, and Rivers felt some need to be amiable and watchful of his own words in what he was longing to say. John listened, amazed. He had had his lesson in our history from two competent masters and was now intensely interested as he listened to the ultimate creed of the owner of men.

Grey had at last given up the cigar he had lighted over and over and let go out as often. He set down his empty glass, and said with perfect courtesy, "I may have been excessive in statement. I beg pardon for having spoken of, or rather hinted at, the need for a resort to arms. That is never a pleasant hint among gentlemen. I should like to hear how this awful problem presents itself to you, a clergyman of, sir, I am glad to know, my own church."

"Yes, that is always pleasant to hear," said Rivers. "There at least we are on common ground. I dislike these discussions, Mr. Grey, but I cannot leave you without a reply, although in this house (and he meant the hint to have its future usefulness) politics are rarely discussed."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Grey. "At home we talk little else. I do believe the watermelons and the pumpkins talk politics."

Rivers smiled. "I shall reply to you, of course. It will not be a full answer. I want to say that this present trouble is not a quarrel born within the memory of any living man. The colonial life began with colonial differences and aversions due to religion—Puritan, Quaker and Church of England, intercolonial tariffs and what not. For the planter-class we were mere traders; they for us were men too lightly presumed to live an idle life of gambling, sport and hard drinking—a life foreign to ours. The colonies were to one another like foreign countries. In the Revolution you may read clearly the effect of these opinions, when Washington expressed the wish that his officers would forget that they came from Connecticut or Virginia, and remember only they were Americans."

Grey said, "We did our share, sir."

"Yes, but all Washington's important generals were Northern men; but that is not to the point. Washington put down the whisky-tax revolt with small regard for State rights. The Constitution unhappily left those State rights in a condition to keep up old differences. That is clear, I regret to say. Then came the tariff and a new seed of dissension. Slavery and its growing claims added later mischief, but it was not the only cause of our troubles, nor is it to-day with us, although it is with you, the largest. We have tried compromises. They are of the history of our own time, familiar to all of us. Well, Mr. Grey, the question is shall we submit to the threat of division, a broken land and its consequences?—one moment and I have done. I am filled with gloom when I look forward. When nations differ, treaties or time, or what not, may settle disputes; too often war. But, Mr. Grey, never are radical, civil or religious differences settled without the sword, if I have read history aright. You see," and he smiled, "I could not let pass your hint without a word."

"If it comes to that—to war," said Grey, "we would win. In that belief lies the certainty I dread."

"Ah! sir, in that Southern belief lies the certainty I too dread. You think we live merely lives of commerce. You do not realise that there is with us a profound sentiment of affection for the Union. No people worth anything ever lived without the very human desire of national self-preservation. It has the force of a man's personal desire for self-preservation. Pardon me, I suppose that I have the habit of the sermon."

Grey replied, "You are very interesting, but I am tired. A little more rye, John. I must adjourn this discussion—we will talk again."

"Not if I can help it," laughed Rivers. "I ought to say that I shall vote the Republican ticket."

"I regret it—I deeply regret it. Oh! thanks, John." He drank the whisky and went upstairs to bed.

Rivers sat down. "This man is what I call a stateriot. I am or try to be that larger thing, a patriot. I did not say all, it was useless. Your uncle cares little—oh, too little—about slavery, and generally the North cares as little; but the antislavery men are active and say, as did Washington, that the Union of the States was or will be insecure until slavery comes to an end. It may be so, John; it is the constant seed of discord. I would say, let them go in peace, but that would be only to postpone war to a future day. I rarely talk about this matter. What made you start him? You ought to have held your tongue."

The young fellow smiled. "Yes, sir, I suppose so."

"However, we won't have it again if I can help it."

"It was very interesting."

"Quite too interesting, but will he try it on the Squire and your aunt? Now I am going home. I hate these talks. Don't sit up and read the Tribune."

"No, sir, and I will take Mr. Grey to ride to-morrow."

"Do, and send him home too tired to talk politics."

"I think if I put him on uncle's big John it will answer."



CHAPTER IX

While the two maids from Westways waited on the family at breakfast, the guest was pleased to express himself favourably in regard to the coffee and the corn bread. John being left alone in care of the guest after the meal proposed a visit to the stables. Mr. Grey preferred for a time the fire, and later would like to walk to the village. Somewhat relieved, John found for him the Baltimore paper, which Mrs. Penhallow read daily. Mr. Grey would not smoke, but before John went away remarked, "I perceive, my boy, no spittoon." He was chewing tobacco vigorously and using the fireplace for his frequent expectoration. John, a little embarrassed, thought of his Aunt Ann. The habit of chewing was strange to the boy's home experience. Certainly, Billy chewed, and others in the town, nor was it at that time uncommon at the North. He confided his difficulty to the groom, his boxing-master, who having in his room the needed utensil placed it beside the hall-fire, to Mr. Grey's satisfaction—a square tray of wood filled with sawdust.

"Not ornamental, but useful, John, in fact essential," said Mr. Grey, as John excused himself with the statement that he had to go to school. When he returned through the woods, about noon, to his relief he saw far down the avenue Mr. Grey and the gold-headed, tasselled cane he carried.

A little later Mr. Grey in the sun of a cool day early in October was walking along the village street in keen search of news of politics. He talked first to Pole, the butcher, who hearing that he was a cousin of Mrs. Penhallow assured him that the town would go solid for Buchanan. Then he met Billy, who was going a-fishing, having refused a wood-cutting job the rector offered.

"A nice fishing-rod that," said Grey.

Billy who was bird-witted and short of memory replied, "Mrs. Penhallow she gave me a dollar to pay pole-tax if I vote for—I guess it was Buchanan. I bought a nice fishing-pole."

Grey was much amused and agreeably instructed in regard to Mrs. Ann's sentiments, as he realized the simple fellow's mental condition. "A fishing-pole-tax—well—well—" and would tell John of his joke. "Any barber in this town?" he asked.

"Yes, there's Josiah," and Billy was no longer to be detained.

Mr. Grey mailed a letter, but the post-mistress would not talk politics and was busy. At last, wandering eastward, he came upon the only unoccupied person in Westways. Peter Lamb, slowly recovering strength, was seated on his mother's doorstep. His search for money had been defeated by the widow's caution, and the whisky craving was being felt anew.

"Good morning," said Grey. "You seem to be the only man here with nothing to do."

"Yes, sir. I've been sick, and am not quite fit to work. Sickness is hard on a working man, sir."

Grey, a kindly person, put his hand in his pocket, "Quite right, it is hard. How are the people here going to vote? I hope the good old ticket."

"Oh! Buchanan and Breckenridge, sir, except one or two and the darkey barber. He's a runaway—I guess. Been here these three or four years. Squire likes him because he's clever about breaking colts."

"Indeed!"

"He's a lazy nigger, sir; ought to be sent back where he belongs."

"What is his name? I suppose he can shave me."

"Calls himself Josiah," said Peter. "Mighty poor barber—cut my face last time he shaved me. You see, he's lost two fingers—makes him awkwarder."

"What! what!" said Grey, of a sudden reflecting, "two fingers—"

"Know him?" said Lamb quickly.

"I—no—Do you suppose I know every runaway nigger?"

"Oh, of course not. Might I ask your name, sir?"

"I am a cousin of Mrs. Penhallow. My name is Grey." Peter became cautious and silent. "Here is a little help, my man, until you get work. Stick to the good old Party." He left two dollars in Lamb's eager hands.

Surprised at this unusual bounty, Peter said, "Thank you, sir. God bless you. It'll be a great help." It meant for the hapless drinker whisky, and he was quick to note the way in which Grey became interested in the man who had lost fingers.

Grey lingered. "I must risk your barber's awkwardness," he said.

"Oh, he can shave pretty well when he's sober. He's our only darkey, sir. You can't miss him. I might show you his shop." This Grey declined.

"I suppose, sir," said Peter, curious, "all darkies look so much alike that it is hard to tell them apart."

"Oh, not for us—not for us."

Then Peter was still more sure that the gentleman with the gold-headed cane was from the South. As Grey lingered thoughtful, Lamb was maliciously inspired by the size of Grey's donation and the prospect it offered. He studied the face of the Southern gentleman and ventured to say, "Excuse me, sir, but if you want to get that man back—"

"I want him! Good gracious! I did not own him. My inquiries were, I might say, casual, purely casual."

Lamb, thanks to the Penhallows, had had some education at the school for the mill children, but what was meant by "purely casual" he did not know. If it implied lack of interest, that was not the case, or why the questions and this gift, large for Westways. But if the gentleman did not own Josiah's years of lost labour, some one else did, and who was it?

As Grey turned away, he said, "I may see you again. I am with my cousin at Grey Pine. By the bye, how will the county vote?"

Peter assured him that the Democratic Party would carry the county. "I am glad," said Grey, "that the people, the real backbone of the country, desire to do justice to the South." He felt himself on the way to another exposition of constitutional rights, but realising that it was unwise checked the outflow of eloquence. He could not, however, refrain from adding, "Your people then are a law-abiding community."

"Yes, sir," said the lover of law, "we are just that, and good sound Democrats."

Grey, curious and mildly interested, determined to be reassured in regard to this black barber's former status. He walked slowly by Josiah's shop followed at a distance by Peter. The barber was shaving Mr. Pole, and intent on his task. Grey caught sight of the black's face. One look was enough—it was familiar—unmistakable. In place of going in to be shaved he turned away and quickened his steps. Peter grinned and went home. "The darn nigger horse-thief," murmured Grey. "I'll write to Woodburn." Then he concluded that first it would be well without committing himself to know more surely how far this Democratic community would go in support of the fugitive-slave law. He applauded his cautiousness.

A moment later Pole, well shaven, overtook him. Grey stopped him, chatted as they went on, and at last asked if there was in Westways a good Democratic lawyer. Pole was confident that Mr. Swallow would be all that he could desire, and pointed out his house.

Meanwhile Peter Lamb began to suspect that there was mischief brewing for the man who had brought down on him the anger of Mark Rivers, and like enough worse things as soon as Penhallow came home.

As Pole turned into his shop-door, Mr. Grey went westward in deep thought. He was sure of the barber's identity. If Josiah had been his own property, he would with no hesitation have taken the steps needful to reclaim the fugitive, but it was Mr. Woodburn who had lost Josiah's years of service and it was desirable not hastily to commit his friend. He knew with what trouble the fugitive-slave law had been obeyed or not obeyed at the North. He was not aware that men who cared little about slavery were indignant at a law which set aside every safeguard with which the growth of civilization had surrounded the trial of even the worst criminal. As he considered the situation, he walked more and more slowly until he paused in front of Swallow's house. Every one had assured him that since General Jackson's time the town and county had changelessly voted the good old Democratic ticket. Here at least the rights of property would be respected, and there would be no lawless city mobs to make the restoration of a slave difficult. The brick house and ill-kept garden before which he paused looked unattractive. Beside the house a one-storey wooden office bore the name "Henry W. Swallow, Attorney-at-law." There was neither bell nor knocker. Mr. Grey rapped on the office door with his cane, and after waiting a moment without hearing any one, he entered a front room and looked about him.

Swallow was a personage whose like was found too often in the small Pennsylvania villages. The only child of a close-fisted, saving farmer, he found himself on his father's death more than sufficiently well-off to go to college and later to study law. He was careful and penurious, but failing of success in Philadelphia returned to Westways when about thirty years old, bought a piece of land in the town, built a house, married a pretty, commonplace young woman, and began to look for business. There was little to be had. The Squire drew his own leases and sold lands to farmers unaided. Then Swallow began to take interest in politics and to lend money to the small farmers, taking mortgages at carefully guarded, usurious interest. Merciless foreclosures resulted, and as by degrees his operations enlarged, he grew richer and became feared and important in a county community where money was scarce. Some of his victims went in despair to the much loved Squire for help, and got, over and over, relief, which disappointed Swallow who disliked him as he did no other man in the county. The Squire returned his enmity with contemptuous bitterness and entire distrust of the man and all his ways.

Mr. Grey saw in the further room the back of a thin figure in a white jacket seated at a desk. The man thus occupied on hearing his entrance said, without looking back, "Sit down, and in a moment I'll attend to you."

Grey replied, "In a moment you won't see me;" and, his voice rising, "I am accustomed to be treated with civility."

Swallow rose at once, and seeing a well-dressed stranger said, "Excuse me, I was drawing a mortgage for a farmer I expected. Take a seat. I am at your service."

Somewhat mollified, Grey sat down. As he took his seat he was not at all sure of what he was really willing to say or do. He was not an indecisive person at home, but here in a Northern State, on what might be hostile ground, he was in doubt concerning that which he felt he honourably owed as a duty to his neighbour. The word had for him limiting definitions, as indeed it has for most of us. Resolving to be cautious, he said with deliberate emphasis, "I should like what I have to say to be considered, sir, as George Washington used to remark, as 'under the rose'—a strictly professional confidence."

"Of course," said Swallow.

"My name is George Grey. I am at Grey Pine on a visit to my cousin, Mrs. Penhallow."

"A most admirable lady," said the lawyer; "absent just now, I hear." He too determined on caution.

"I have been wandering about your quiet little town this morning and made some odd acquaintances. One Billy, he called himself, most amusing—most amusing. It seems that my cousin gave him money to pay his poll-tax. The poor simple fellow bought a fishing-pole and line. He was, I fancy, to vote for Buchanan. My cousin, I infer, must be like all our people a sound Democrat."

"I have heard as much," returned Swallow. "I am doing what I can for the party, but the people here are sadly misled and our own party is slowly losing ground."

"Indeed! I talked a little with a poor fellow named Lamb, out-of-work and sick. He assured me that the town was solid for Buchanan, and also the county."

Swallow laughed heartily. "What! Peter Lamb. He is our prize drunkard, sir, and would have been in jail long ago but for Penhallow. They are foster-brothers."

"Indeed!" Mr. Grey felt that his knowledge of character had been sadly at fault and that he had been wise in not having said more to the man out-of-work.

"Do you think, Mr. Swallow, that if a master reclaimed a slave in this county that there would be any trouble in carrying out the law?"

"No, sir," said Swallow. "The county authorities are all Democrats and would obey the law. Suppose, sir, that you were frankly to put before me the whole case, relying on my secrecy. Where is the man?"

"Let me then tell you my story. As a sound Democrat it will at least have your sympathy."

"Certainly, I am all attention."

"About the tenth of June over four years ago I rode with my friend Woodburn into our county-town. At the bank we left our horses with his groom Caesar, an excellent servant, much trusted; used to ride quarter races for my father when a boy. When we came out, Woodburn's horse was hitched to a post and mine was gone, and that infernal nigger on him. He was traced to the border, but my mare had no match in the county."

"So he stole the horse; that makes it an easy case."

"No, sir. To be precise, he left the horse at a tavern in this State, with my name and address. Some Quakers helped him on his way."

"And he is in this county?" asked Swallow.

"Yes, sir. His name here is Josiah—seems to be known by that name alone."

"Josiah!" gasped Swallow. "A special favourite of Penhallow. A case to be gravely considered—most gravely. The Squire—"

"But surely he will obey the law."

"Yes—probably—but who can say? He was at one time a Democrat, but now is, I hear, likely to vote for Fremont."

"That seems incredible."

"And yet true. I should like, sir, to think the matter over for a day or two. Did the man see you—I mean, recognize you?"

"No, but as I went by his shop, I at once recognized him; and he has lost two fingers. Oh! I know the fellow. I can swear to him, and it is easy to bring his master Woodburn here."

"I see. Well, let me think it over for a day or two."

"Very good," returned Grey, "and pray consider yourself as in my debt for your services."

"All right, Mr. Grey."

With this Mr. Grey went away a thoughtful man. He attracted some attention as he moved along the fronts of the houses. Strangers were rare. Being careful not to go near Josiah's little shop, he crossed the road and climbing the fence went through the wood, reflecting that until this matter was settled he would feel that his movements must be unpleasantly governed by the need to avoid Josiah. He felt this to be humiliating. Other considerations presented themselves in turn. This ungrateful black had run away with his, George Grey's, horse—a personal wrong. His duty to Woodburn was plain. Then, if this black fellow was as Swallow said, a favourite of Captain Penhallow, to plan his capture while himself a guest in Penhallow's house was rather an awkward business. However, he felt that he must inform his friend Woodburn, after which he would turn him over to Swallow and not appear in the business at all. It did not, however, present itself to the Maryland gentleman as a nice situation. If his cousin Ann were, as he easily learned, a strong Democrat, it might be well to sound her on the general situation. She had lived half her life among slaves and those who owned them. She would know how far Penhallow was to be considered as a law-abiding citizen, or whether he might be offended, for after all, as George Grey knew, his own share in the matter would be certain to become known. "A damned unpleasant affair," he said aloud as he walked up the avenue, "but we as Southern gentlemen have got to stand by one another. I must let Woodburn know, and decide for himself."

Neither was the lawyer Swallow altogether easy about the matter on which he had desired time for thought. It would be the first case in the county under the fugitive-slave act. If the man were reclaimed, he, Swallow, would be heard of all through the State; but would that help him before the people in a canvass for the House? He could not answer, for the old political parties were going to pieces and new ones were forming. Moreover, Josiah was much liked and much respected. Then, too, there was the fee. He walked about the room singularly disturbed. Some prenatal fate had decreed that he should be old-aged at forty. He had begun to be aware that his legs were aging faster than his mind. Except the pleasure of accumulating money, which brought no enjoyment, he had thus far no games in life which interested him; but now the shifting politics of the time had tempted him, and possibly this case might be used to his advantage. The black eyebrows under fast whitening hair grew together in a frown, while below slowly gathered the long smile of satisfaction. "How Penhallow will hate it." This thought was for him what the stolen mare was for George Grey. He must look up the law.

Meanwhile George Grey, under the necessity of avoiding the village for a time, was rather bored. He had criticized the stables and the horses, and had been told that the Squire relied with good reason on the judgment of Josiah in regard to the promise of good qualities in colts. Then, used to easy roadsters, he had been put on the Squire's rough trotter and led by the tireless lad had come back weary from long rides across rough country fields and over fences. The clergyman would talk no more politics, John pleaded lessons, and it was on the whole dull, so that Mr. Grey was pleased to hear of the early return of his cousin. A letter to John desired him to meet his aunt on the 8th, and accordingly he drove to the station at Westways Crossing, picking up Billy on the way. Mrs. Ann got out of the car followed by the conductor and brakeman carrying boxes and bundles, which Billy, greatly excited, stowed away under the seats of the Jersey wagon. Mrs. Penhallow distributed smiles and thanks to the men who made haste to assist, being one of the women who have no need to ask help from any man in sight.

"Now, Billy," she said, "be careful with those horses. When you attend, you drive very well."

She settled herself on the back seat with John, delighted to be again where her tireless sense of duty kept her busy—quite too busy at times, thought some of the village dames. "Your Uncle James will soon be at home. Is his pet scamp any better?"

John did not know, but Josiah's rheumatism was quite well.

"Sister-in-law has a baby. Six trout I ketched; they're at the house for you—weighs seven pounds," said Billy without turning round.

"Trout or baby?" said Ann, laughing.

"Baby, ma'am."

"Thanks, but don't talk any more."

"Yes, ma'am."

"How is Leila?" asked John. "Does she like it at school?"

"No, not at all; but she will."

"I don't, Aunt Ann."

"I suppose not."

"Am I to be allowed to write to her?"

"I think not. There is some rule that letters, but—" and she laughed merrily. The rector, who worshipped her, said once that her laugh was like the spring song of birds. "But sometimes I may be naughty enough to let you slip a few lines into my letters."

"That is more than I hoped for. I am—I was so glad to get you back, Aunt Ann, that I forgot to tell you, Mr. George Grey has come."

"How delightful! He has been promising a visit for years. How pleased James will be! I wonder how the old bachelor ever made up his mind. I hope you made it pleasant, John."

"I tried to, aunt." Whether James Penhallow would like it was for John doubtful, but he said nothing further.

"The cities are wild about politics, and there is no end of trouble in Philadelphia over the case of a fugitive slave. I was glad to get away to Grey Pine."

John had never heard her mention this tender subject and was not surprised when she added quickly, "But I never talk politics, John, and you are too young to know anything about them." This was by no means true, as she well knew. "How are my chickens?" She asked endless questions of small moment.

"Got a new fishing-rod," said Billy, but to John's amusement did not pursue the story concerning which George Grey had gleefully enlightened him.

"Well, at last, Cousin George," she cried, as the cousin gave her his hand on the porch. "Glad to see you—most glad. Come in when you have finished your cigar."

She followed John into the hall. "Ah! the dear home." Then her eyes fell on the much used spittoon by the fireside. "Good gracious, John, a—a spittoon!"

"Yes, aunt. Mr. Grey chews."

"Indeed!" She looked at the box and went upstairs. For years to come and in the most incongruous surroundings John Penhallow now and then laughed as he saw again the look with which Mrs. Ann regarded the article so essential to Mr. Grey's comfort. She disliked all forms of tobacco use, and the law of the pipe had long ago been settled at Grey Pine as Mrs. Penhallow decreed, because that was always what James Penhallow decided to think desirable.

"But this! this!" murmured the little lady, as she came down the staircase ready for dinner. She rang for the maid. "Take that thing away and wash it well, and put in fresh sawdust twice a day."

"I hope John has been a good host," she said, as Grey entered the hall.

"Couldn't be better, and I have had some delightful rides. I found the mills interesting—in fact, most instructive." He spoke in short childlike sentences unless excited by politics.

Mrs. Ann noted without surprise the free use of whisky, and later the appreciative frequency of resort to Penhallow's Madeira. A glass of wine at lunch and after dinner were her husband's sole indulgence. The larger potations of her cousin in no way affected him. He talked as usual to Mark Rivers and John about horses, crops and the weather, while Mrs. Ann listened to the flow of disconnected trifles in some wonder as to how James Penhallow would endure it. Grey for the time kept off the danger line of politics, having had of late such variously contributed knowledge as made him careful.

When to Mrs. Ann's relief dinner was over, the rector said his sermon for to-morrow must excuse him and went home. John decided that his role of host was over and retired to his algebra and to questions more easy to solve than of how to entertain Mr. George Grey. It was not difficult, as Mrs. Penhallow saw, to make Grey feel at home; all he required was whisky, cigars, and some mild appearance of interest in his talk. She had long anticipated his visit with pleasure, thinking that James Penhallow would be pleased and the better for some rational male society. Rivers had now deserted her, and she really would not sit with her kinsman's cigar a whole evening in the library. She said, "The night is warm for October, come out onto the porch, George."

"With all the pleasure in the world," said Grey, as he followed her.

By habit and training hospitable and now resigned to her fate, Mrs. Ann said, "Light your cigar, George; I do not mind it out-of-doors."

"I am greatly indebted—I was given to understand that it was disagreeable to you—like—politics—ah! Cousin Ann."

"We are not much given to talking politics," she said rather sharply.

"Not talk politics!" exclaimed Grey. "What else is there to talk about nowadays? But why not, Cousin Ann?"

"Well, merely because while I am Southern—and a Democrat, James has seen fit to abandon our party and become a Republican."

"Incomprehensible!" said Grey. "Ours is the party of gentlemen—of old traditions. I cannot understand it."

"Nor I," said she, "but now at least," and she laughed—"there will be one Republican gentleman. However, George, as we are both much in earnest, we keep politics out of the house."

"It must be rather awkward, Ann."

"What must be rather awkward?"

Did he really mean to discuss, to criticize her relations to James Penhallow? The darkness was for a time the grateful screen.

Grey, a courteous man, felt the reproof in her question, and replied, "I beg pardon, my dear Ann, I have heard of the captain's unfortunate change of opinion. I shall hope, however, to be able to convince him that to elect Fremont will be to break up the Union. I think I could put it so clearly that—"

Ann laughed low laughter as vastly amused she laid a hand on her cousin's arm. "You don't know James Penhallow. He has been from his youth a Democrat. There never was any question about how he would vote. But now, since 1850—" and she paused, "in fact, I do not care to discuss with you what I will not with James." Her great love, her birth, training, education and respect for the character of her husband, made this discussion hateful. Her eyes filled, and, much troubled, she was glad of the mask of night.

"But answer me one question, Ann. Why did he change?"

"He was becoming dissatisfied and losing faith in his own party, but it was at last my own dear South and its friends at the North who drove him out." Again she paused.

"What do you mean, Ann?" asked Grey, still persistent.

"It began long ago, George. He said to me one day, 'That fool Fillmore has signed the Fugitive-Slave Act; it is hardly possible to obey it.' Then I said, 'Would you not, James?' I can never forget it. He said, 'Yes, I obey the law, Ann, but this should be labelled 'an act to exasperate the North.' I am done with the Democrat and all his ways. Obey the law! Yes, I was a soldier.' Then he said, 'Ann, we must never talk politics again.' We never do."

"And yet, Ann," said Grey, "that act was needed."

"Perhaps," she returned, and then followed a long silence, as with thought of James Penhallow she sat smiling in the darkness and watched the rare wandering lanterns of the belated fireflies.

The man at her side was troubled into unnatural silence. He had hoped to find an ally in his cousin's husband, and now what should he do? He had concluded that as an honest man he had done his duty when he had written to Woodburn; but now as a man of honour what should he say to James Penhallow? To conceal from his host what he had done was the obvious business-like course. This troubled a man who was usually able to see his way straight on all matters of social conduct and was sensitive on points of honour. While Ann sat still and wondered that her guest was so long silent, he was finding altogether unpleasant his conclusion that he must be frank with Penhallow. He felt sure, however, that Ann would naturally be on his side. He introduced the matter lightly with, "I chanced to see in the village a black man who is said to be a vagabond scamp. He is called Josiah—a runaway slave, I fancy."

Ann sat up in her chair. "Who said he was a scamp?"

"Oh, a man named Lamb." Then he suddenly remembered Mr. Swallow's characterization, and added, "not a very trustworthy witness, I presume."

Ann laughed. "Peter Lamb! He is a drunken, loafing fellow, who to his good fortune chances to have been James's foster-brother. As concerns Josiah, he turned up here some years ago, got work in the stables, and was set up by James as the village barber. No one knew whence he came. I did, of course, suspect him to be a runaway. He is honest and industrious. Last year I was ill when James was absent. We have only maids in the house, and when I was recovering Josiah carried me up and downstairs until James returned. A year after he came, Leila had an accident. Josiah stopped her horse and got badly hurt—" Then with quick insight, she added, "What interest have you in our barber, George? Is it possible you know Josiah?"

Escape from truthful reply was impossible. "Yes, I do. He is the property of my friend and neighbour Woodburn. I knew him at once—the man had lost three fingers—he did not see me."

"Well!" she said coldly, "what next, George Grey?"

"I must inform his master. As a Southern woman you, of course, see that no other course is possible. It is unpleasant, but your sense of right must make you agree with me."

She returned, speaking slowly, "I do wish you would not do it, George." Then she said quickly, "Have you taken any steps in this matter?"

He was fairly cornered. "Yes, I wrote to Woodburn. He will be here in a couple of days. I am sure he will lose no time—and will take legal measures at once to reclaim his property."

"I suppose it is all right," she said despairingly, "but I am more than sorry—what James will say I do not know. I hope he will not be called on to act—under the law he may."

"When does he return?" said Grey. "I shall, of course, be frank with him."

"That will be advisable. He may be absent for a week longer, or so he writes. I leave you to your cigar. I am tired, and to-morrow is Sunday. Shall you go to church?"

"Certainly, Ann. Good-night."

At the door she turned back with a new and relieving thought. "Suppose I—or we—buy this man's freedom."

"If I owned him that would not be required after what you have told me, but Woodburn is an obstinate, rather stern man, and will refuse, I fear, to sell—"

"What will he do with Josiah if he is returned to him as the Act orders?"

"Oh! once a runaway—and the man is no good?—he would probably sell him to be sent South."

She rose and for a moment stood still in the darkness, and then crying, "The pity of it, my God, the pity of it!" went away without the usual courtesy of good-night.

George Grey, when left to his own company, somewhat amazed, began to wish he had never had a hand in this business. Ann Penhallow went up to her room, although it was as yet early, leaving John in the library and Grey with a neglected cigar on the porch. In the bedroom over his shop the man most concerned sat industriously reading the Tribune.

Ann sat down to think. The practical application of a creed to conduct is not always easy. All her young life had been among kindly considered slaves. Mr. Woodburn had a right to his property. The law provided for the return of slaves if they ran away. She suddenly realized that this man's future fate was in her power, and she both liked and respected him, and he had been hurt in their service. Oh! why was not James at home? Could she sit still and let things go their way while the mechanism of the law worked. Between head and heart there was much argument. Her imagination pictured Josiah's future. Had he deserved a fate so sad? She fell on her knees and prayed for help. At last she rose and went down to the library. John laid down his book and stood up. The young face greeted her pleasantly, as she said, "Sit down, John, I want to talk to you. Can you keep a secret?"

"Why—yes—Aunt Ann. What is it?"

"I mean, John, keep it so that no one will guess you have a secret."

"I think I can," he replied, much surprised and very curious.

"You are young, John, but in your uncle's absence there is no one else to whom I can turn for help. Now, listen. Has Mr. Grey gone to bed?"

"Yes, aunt."

She leaned toward him, speaking low, almost in a whisper, "I do not want to explain, I only want to tell you something. Josiah is a runaway slave, John."

"Yes, aunt, he told me all about it."

"Did he, indeed!"

"Yes, we are great friends—I like him—and he trusted me. What's the matter now?" He was quick to understand that Josiah was in some danger. Naturally enough he remembered the man's talk and his one fear—recapture.

"George Grey has recognised Josiah as a runaway slave of a Mr. Woodburn—" She was most unwilling to say plainly, "Go and warn him."

He started up. "And they mean to take him back?"

She was silent. The indecisions of the habitually decisive are hard to deal with. The lad was puzzled by her failure to say more.

"It is dreadful, Aunt Ann. I think I ought to go and tell Josiah—now—to-night."

She made no comment except to say, "Arrest is not possible on Sunday—and he is safe until Monday or Tuesday."

John Penhallow looked at her for a moment surprised that she did not say go, or else forbid him to go; it was unlike her. He had no desire to wait for Sunday and was filled with anxiety. "I think I must go now—now," he said.

"Then I shall go to bed," she said, and kissing him went away slowly step by step up the stairs.

Staircases are apt to suggest reflections, and there are various ways of rendering the French phrase "esprit de l'escalier." Aware that want of moral courage had made her uncertain what to do, or like the Indian, having two hearts, Ann had been unable to accept bravely the counsel of either. The loyal decisiveness of a lad of only sixteen years had settled the matter and relieved her of any need to personally warn Josiah. Some other influences aided to make her feel satisfied that there should be a warning. She was resentful because George Grey had put her in a position where she had been embarrassed by intense sectional sense of duty and by kindly personal regard for a man who not being criminal was to be deprived of all the safeguards against injustice provided by the common law. There were other and minor causes which helped to content her with what she well knew she had done to disappoint Mr. Woodburn of his prey. George Grey was really a bore of capacity to wreck the social patience of the most courteous. The rector fled from him, John always had lessons and how would James endure his vacuous talk. It all helped her to be comfortably angry, and there too was that horrible spittoon.

The young fellow who went with needless haste out of the house and down the avenue about eleven o'clock had no indecisions. Josiah trusted him, and he felt the compliment this implied.



CHAPTER X

On the far side of the highroad Westways slumbered. Only in the rector's small house were lights burning. The town was in absolute darkness. Westways went to bed early. A pleased sense of the responsibility of his errand went with John as he came near to where Josiah's humble two-storey house stood back from the street line, marked by the well-known striped pole of the barber, of which Josiah was professionally proud. John paused in front of the door. He knew that he must awaken no one but Josiah. After a moment's thought he went along the side of the house to the small garden behind it where Josiah grew the melons no one else could grow, and which he delighted to take to Miss Leila or Mrs. Penhallow. In the novel the heroes threw pebbles at the window to call up fair damsels. John grinned; he might break a pane, but the noise—He was needlessly cautious. Josiah had built a trellis against the back of the house for grapevines which had not prospered. John began to climb up it with care and easily got within reach of the second-storey window. He tapped sharply on the glass, but getting no reply hesitated a moment. He could hear from within the sonorous assurance of deep slumber. Somehow he must waken him. He lifted the sash and called over and over in a low voice, "Josiah!" The snoring ceased, but not the sleep. The lad was resolute and still fearful of making a noise. He climbed with care into the dark room upsetting a little table. Instantly Josiah bounded out of bed and caught him in his strong grip, as John gasped, "Josiah!"

"My God!" cried the black in alarm, "anything wrong at the house?"

"No, sit down—I've got to tell you something. Your old master, Woodburn, is coming to catch you—he will be here soon—I know he won't be here for a day or two—"

"Is that so, Master John? It's awful—I've got to run. I always knowed sometime I'd have to run." He sat down on the bed; he was appalled. "God help me!—where can I go? I've got two hundred dollars and seventy-five cents saved up in the county bank, and I've not got fifty cents in the house. I can't get the money out—I'd be afraid to go there Monday. Oh, Lord!"

He began to dress in wild haste. John tried in vain to assure him that he would be safe on Sunday and Monday, or even later, but was in fact not sure, and the man was wailing like a child in distress, thinking over his easy, upright life and his little treasure, which seemed to him lost. He asked no questions; all other emotion was lost in one over-mastering terror.

John said at last, "If I write a cheque for you, can you sign your name to it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I will write a cheque for all of it and I'll get it out for you."

A candle was lighted and the cheque written. "Now write your name here, Josiah—so—that's right." He obeyed like a child, and John who had often collected cheques for his aunt of late, knew well enough how to word it to be paid to bearer. He put it in his pocket.

"But how will I ever get it?" said Josiah, "and where must I go? I'll get away Monday afternoon."

John was troubled, and then said, "I'll tell you. Go to the old cabin in the wood. That will be safe. I will bring you your money Monday afternoon."

The black reflected in silence and then said, "That will do—no man will take me alive, I know—my God, I know! Who set them on me? Who told? It was that drunken rascal, Peter. He told me he'd tell if I didn't get him whisky. How did he know—Oh, Lord! He set 'em on me—I'd like to kill him."

John was alarmed at the fierceness of the threat. "Oh! but you won't—promise me. I've helped you, Josiah."

"I promise, Master John. I'm a Christian man, thank the Lord. I'd like to, but I won't—I won't."

"Now, that's right," said John much relieved. "You'll go to the cabin Monday—for sure."

"Yes—who told you to tell me?"

John, prudently cautious, refused to answer. "Now, let me out, I must go. I can't tell you how sorry I will be—" and he was tempted to add his aunt, but was wise in time. He had done his errand well, and was pleased with the success of his adventure and the flavour of peril in what he had done. He let himself into Grey Pine and went noiselessly upstairs. Then a window was closed and a waiting, anxious woman went to bed and lay long awake thinking.

John understood the unusual affection of his aunt's greeting when before breakfast she kissed him and started George Grey on his easy conversational trot. She had compromised with her political conscience and, notwithstanding, was strangely satisfied and a trifle ashamed that she had not been more distinctly courageous.

At church they had as usual a good congregation of the village folk and men from the mills, for Rivers was eminently a man's preacher and was much liked. John observed, however, that Josiah, who took care of the church, was not in his usual seat near the door. He was at home terribly alarmed and making ready for his departure on Monday. The rector missing him called after church, but his knock was not answered.

When Mr. Grey in the afternoon declared he would take a walk and mail some letters, Mrs. Ann called John into the library. "Well," she said, "did you see Josiah?"

"Yes, aunt." It was characteristic of John Penhallow even thus early in life that he was modest and direct in statement. He said nothing of his mode of reaching Josiah. "I told him of his risk. He will hide in—"

"Do not tell me where," said Ann quickly; "I do not want to know."

He wondered why she desired to hear no more. He went on—"He has money in the county bank—two hundred dollars."

"He must have been saving—poor fellow!"

"I wrote a cheque for him, to bearer. I am to draw it tomorrow and take it to him in the afternoon. Then he will be able to get away."

Here indeed was something for Ann to think about. When Josiah was missed and legal measures taken, a pursuit organized, John having drawn his money might be questioned. This would never do—never. Oddly enough she had the thought, "Who will now shave James?" She smiled and said, "I must keep you out of the case—give me the cheque. Oh, I see it is drawn to bearer. I wonder if his owner could claim it. He may—he might—if it is left there."

"That would be mean," said John.

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "Yes—I could give him the money. Let me think about it. Of course, I could draw on my account and leave Josiah's alone. But he has a right to his own money. I will keep the cheque, John. I will draw out his money and give it to you. Good gracious, boy! you are like James Penhallow."

"That's praise for a fellow!" said John.

Ann had the courage of her race and meant at last to see this thing through at all costs. The man had made his money and should have it. She was now resolute to take her share in the perilous matter she had started; and after all she was the wife of James Penhallow of Grey Pine; who would dare to question her? As to George Grey, she dismissed him with a low laugh and wondered when that long-desired guest would elect to leave Grey Pine.

At ten on Monday Billy, for choice, drove her over to the bank at the mills. The young cashier was asked about his sick sister, and then rather surprised as he took the cheque inquired, "How will you have it, ma'am? Josiah must be getting an investment."

"One hundred in fifties and the rest—oh, fifty in fives, the rest in ones."

She drove away, and in an hour gave the notes to John in an envelope, asking no questions. He set off in the afternoon to give Josiah his money.

Meanwhile on this Monday morning a strange scene in this drama was being acted in Josiah's little shop. He was at the door watchful and thinking of his past and too doubtful future, when he saw Peter Lamb pause near by. The man, fresh from the terrors of delirium tremens, had used the gift of Grey with some prudence and was in the happy condition of slight alcoholic excitement and good-humour.

"Halloa!" cried Peter. "How are you? I'm going to the mills to see my girl—want you to shave me—got over my joke; funny, wasn't it?"

A sudden ferocious desire awoke in the good-natured barber—some long-past inheritance of African lust for the blood of an enemy.

"Don't like to kiss with a rough beard," said Peter. "I'll pay—got money—now."

"Come in," said Josiah. "Set down. I'll shut the door—it's a cold morning."

He spread the lather over the red face. "Head back a bit—that's right comfortable now, isn't it?"

"All right—go ahead."

Josiah took his razor. "Now, then," he said, as he set a big strong hand on the man's forehead, "if you move, I'll cut your throat—keep quiet—don't you move. You told I was a slave—you ruined my life—I never did you no harm—I'd kill you just as easy as that—" and he drew the blunt cold back of the razor across the hairy neck.

"My God!—I—" The man shuddered.

"Keep still—or you are a dead man."

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Lamb.

"I would kill you, but I don't want to be hanged. God will take care of you—He is sure. Some day you will do some wickedness worse than this—you just look at me."

There was for Peter fearful fascination in the black face of the man who stood looking down at him, the jaw moving, the white teeth showing, the eyes red, the face twitching with half-suppressed passion.

"Answer me now—and by God, if you lie, I will kill you. You set some one on me? Quick now!"

"I did."

"Who was it? No lies, now!"

"Mr. George Grey." Then Josiah fully realized his danger.

"Why did you?"

"You wouldn't help me to get whisky."

"Well, was that all?"

"You went and got the preacher to set Mr. Penhallow on me. He gave me the devil."

"My God, was that all? You've ruined me for a drink of whisky—you've got your revenge. I'm lost—lost. Your day will come—I'll be there. Now go and repent if you can—you've been near to death. Go!" he cried.

He seized the terrified man with one strong hand, lifted him from the chair, cast open the door and hurled him out into the street. A little crowd gathered around Lamb as he rose on one elbow, dazed.

"Drunk!" said Pole, the butcher. "Drunk again!"

Josiah shut and locked the door. Then he tied up his bundle of clothes, filled a basket with food, and went out into his garden. He cast a look back at the neatly kept home he had recently made fresh with paint. He paused to pick a chilled rosebud and set it in his button-hole—a fashion copied from his adored captain. He glanced tearfully at the glass-framed covers of the yellowing melon vines. He had made money out of his melons, and next year would have been able to send a good many to Pittsburgh. As he turned to leave the little garden in which he took such pride, he heard an old rooster's challenge in his chicken-yard, which had been another means of money-making. He went back and opened the door, leaving the fowl their liberty. When in the lane behind his house, he walked along in the rear of the houses, and making sure that he was unobserved, crossed the road and entered the thick Penhallow forest. He walked rapidly for half an hour, and leaving the wood road found his way to the cabin the first Penhallow built. It was about half after one o'clock when the fugitive lay down on the earth of the cabin with his hands clasped behind his head. He stared upward, wondering where he could go to be safe. He would have to spend some of the carefully saved money. That seemed to him of all things the most cruel. He was not trained to consecutive thinking; memories old or new flitted through his mind. Now and then he said to himself that perhaps he had had no right to run away—and perhaps this was punishment. He had fled from the comforts of an easy life, where he had been fed, clothed and trusted. Not for a moment would he have gone back—but why had he run away? What message that soaring hawk had sent to him from his swift circling sweep overhead he was not able to put in words even if he had so desired. "That wicked hawk done it!" he said aloud.

At last, hearing steps outside, he bounded to his feet, a hand on the knife in his belt. He stood still waiting, ready as a crouching tiger, resolute, a man at bay with an unsated appetite for freedom. The door opened and John entered.

"You sort of scared me, Master John."

"You are safe here, Josiah, and here is your money."

He took it without a word, except, "I reckon, Master John, you know I'm thankful. Was there any one missing me?"

"No, no one."

"I'll get away to-night. I'll go down through Lonesome Man's Swamp and take my old bateau and run down the river. You might look after my muskrat traps. I was meaning to make a purse for the little missy. Now do you just go away, and may the Lord bless you. I guess we won't ever meet no more. You'll be mighty careful, Master John?"

"But you'll write, Josiah."

"I wouldn't dare to write—I'd be takin' risks. Think I'm safe here? Oh, Lord!"

"No one knows where you are—you'll go to-night?"

"Yes, after dark." He seemed more at ease as he said, "It was Peter Lamb set Mr. Grey on me. He must have seen me after that. I told you it was Peter."

"Yes,"—and then with the hopefulness of youth—"but you will come back, I am sure."

"No, sir—never no more—and the captain and Miss Leila—it's awful—where can I go?"

John could not help him further. "God bless you, Master John." They parted at length at the door of the cabin which had seen no other parting as sad.

The black lay down again. Now and then he swept his sleeve across tearful eyes. Then he stowed his money under his shirt in a linen bag hung to his neck, keeping out a few dollars, and at last fell sound asleep exhausted by emotion,

Josiah's customers were few in number. Westways was too poor to be able to afford a barber more than once a week, and then it was always in mid-morning when work ceased for an hour. Sometimes the Squire on his way to the mills came to town early, but as a rule Josiah went to Grey Pine and shaved him while they talked about colts and their training. As he was rarely needed in the afternoon, Josiah often closed his shop about two o'clock and went a-fishing or set traps on the river bank. His absence on this Monday afternoon gave rise, therefore, to no surprise, but when his little shop remained closed on Tuesday, his neighbours began to wonder. Peter Lamb wandering by rather more drunken than on Monday, stood a while looking at the shut door, then went on his devious way, thinking of the fierce eyes and the curse. Next came Swallow for his daily shave. He knocked at the door and tried to enter. It was locked. He heard no answer to his louder knock. He at once suspected that his prey had escaped him, and that the large fee he had counted on was to say the least doubtful. But who could have warned the black? Had Mr. Grey been imprudent? Lamb had been the person who had led Grey, as Swallow knew from that gentleman, to suspect Josiah as a runaway; but now as he saw Peter reeling up the street, he was aware that he was in no state to be questioned. He went away disappointed and found that no one he met knew whither Josiah had gone.

At Grey Pine Mrs. Ann, uneasily conscious of her share in the matter, asked John if he had given the money to Josiah. He said yes, and that the man was safe and by this time far away. Meanwhile, the little town buzzed with unwonted excitement and politics gave place about the grocer's door at evening to animated discussion, which was even more interesting when on Wednesday there was still no news and the town lamented the need to go unshaven.