“That ends it,” sighed Mr. Clayton.  “The dove of peace will never again rest on my roof-tree.”

But why dwell longer on the sufferings of Mr. Clayton, or attempt to describe the feelings or chronicle the remarks of his wife and daughter when they learned the facts in the case?

As to Representative Brown, he was made welcome in the hospitable home of Mr. William Watkins.  There was a large and brilliant assemblage at the party on Wednesday evening, at which were displayed the costumes prepared for the Clayton reception.  Mr. Brown took a fancy to Miss Lura Watkins, to whom, before the week was over, he became engaged to be married.  Meantime poor Alice, the innocent victim of circumstances and principles, lay sick abed with a supposititious case of malignant diphtheria, and a real case of acute disappointment and chagrin.

“Oh, Jack!” exclaimed Alice, a few weeks later, on the way home from evening church in company with the young man, “what a dreadful thing it all was!  And to think of that hateful Lura Watkins marrying the Congressman!”

The street was shaded by trees at the point where they were passing, and there was no one in sight.  Jack put his arm around her waist, and, leaning over, kissed her.

“Never mind, dear,” he said soothingly, “you still have your ’last chance’ left, and I ’ll prove myself a better man than the Congressman.”

* * * * *

Occasionally, at social meetings, when the vexed question of the future of the colored race comes up, as it often does, for discussion, Mr. Clayton may still be heard to remark sententiously:——­

“What the white people of the United States need most, in dealing with this problem, is a higher conception of the brotherhood of man.  For of one blood God made all the nations of the earth.”

Cicely’s Dream

I

The old woman stood at the back door of the cabin, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking across the vegetable garden that ran up to the very door.  Beyond the garden she saw, bathed in the sunlight, a field of corn, just in the ear, stretching for half a mile, its yellow, pollen-laden tassels overtopping the dark green mass of broad glistening blades; and in the distance, through the faint morning haze of evaporating dew, the line of the woods, of a still darker green, meeting the clear blue of the summer sky.  Old Dinah saw, going down the path, a tall, brown girl, in a homespun frock, swinging a slat-bonnet in one hand and a splint basket in the other.

“Oh, Cicely!” she called.

The girl turned and answered in a resonant voice, vibrating with youth and life,——­

“Yes, granny!”

“Be sho’ and pick a good mess er peas, chile, fer yo’ gran’daddy’s gwine ter be home ter dinner ter-day.”