“There are three hundred men in this hall.  The light is good, and my eyesight is not impaired; but I can not see a man among you who was not a Democrat a year or two ago.  There are not fifty men among you that voted for Abraham Lincoln. [Murmurs.] Are the two hundred and fifty, then, traitors?  Are they rebel sympathizers?  Are they Copperheads?  One thousand men marched under the Caribee flag; not a man of them voted for Lincoln.  Are they Copperheads?  This township, by its vote at the last election, was five to one Democratic.  Is this a Copperhead community?  Nearly a half million dollars have been subscribed for bounties and war measures; the tax-payers, almost to a man, are Democrats.  Is it possible, then, that the Copperheads are supplying the money to carry on the war?  You propose to burn the mansion of my old partner, Senator Sprague!  Why?  Because his estate has given more to the Union cause than any other family in the township?”

“The son has gone over to the rebels,” a voice cried.

“Thank you.  There—­I’m glad you have given me the chance to crush that cowardly calumny—­the invention of some envious malefactor.  Jack Sprague has gone over to the rebels, just as Anderson and his men went over at Sumter; just as fifteen hundred of his comrades went over at Bull Run; just as some of our sons and brothers here in Acredale went over; just as my friend, Boone’s son, went over—­because he was surrounded and wounded.”

“Stop a moment, if you please, friend Brodie; I protest against your making anything in common between my son and this young man.  The matter is to be investigated, and then we can tell better.”

Boone spoke in great excitement, and the audience, now feverishly wrought up, urged the lawyer to say his say out.  He continued in the trained, impassive tones of the advocate: 

“Every one in this room knows the two young men.  It would be waste of time for me to strive to make anything in common between John Sprague and Wesley Boone.  Here, where they both grew up, that is quite unnecessary.”

“I—­I—­referred to their conduct as soldiers,” Boone cried, hoarsely.  “My son lost his life in the service of his country.  I can’t have his name coupled with a—­murderer’s—­with a traitor’s.”

“Ah, my friend, when hate draws your portrait it is bound to be black.  When prejudice holds the pen, your virtues stand in the shade of vice.  I will tell John Sprague’s story from the day he quit Acredale to the unhappy hour his comrade was killed in the dark, in the sleeping-room of the mother and daughter who had nursed him from the very jaws of death.  He was in that house by his father’s urgent request, though it would have needed none to open its doors to any one in want of succor.  Nor,” he added, significantly, “can it be told who killed Wesley Boone until all the shots fired in Mrs. Atterbury’s chamber are accounted for.”