Emily hurried downstairs, on hearing of the arrival of uncle John, for he was regarded by her as a friend.  She had always received from him marked kindness and respect, and upon the arrival of Mr. Garie’s visitors, there was none she received with as much pleasure.  Quickly mixing the drink, she carried it into the room where he and her husband were sitting.  She was warmly greeted by the kind-hearted old man, who, in reply to her question if he had come to make them a farewell visit, said he hoped not:  he trusted to make them many more in the same place.

“I’m afraid you won’t have an opportunity,” she replied.  “In less than a week we expect to be on our way to New York.—­I must go,” continued she, “and have a room prepared for you, and hunt up the children.  You’ll scarcely know them, they have grown so much since you were here.  I’ll soon send them,” and she hurried off to make uncle John’s room comfortable.

“I was never more surprised in my life,” said the old gentleman, depositing the glass upon the table, after draining it of its contents—­“never more surprised than when I received your letter, in which you stated your intention of going to the North to live.  A more ridiculous whim it is impossible to conceive—­the idea is perfectly absurd!  To leave a fine old place like this, where you have everything around you so nice and comfortable, to go north, and settle amongst a parcel of strange Yankees!  My dear boy, you must give it up.  I’m no longer your guardian—­the law don’t provide one for people of thirty years and upwards—­so it is out of my power to say you shall not do it; but I am here to use all my powers of persuasion to induce you to relinquish the project.”

“Uncle John, you don’t seem to understand the matter.  It is not a whim, by any means—­it is a determination arising from a strict sense of duty; I feel that it is an act of justice to Emily and the children.  I don’t pretend to be better than most men; but my conscience will not permit me to be the owner of my own flesh and blood.  I’m going north, because I wish to emancipate and educate my children—­you know I can’t do it here.  At first I was as disinclined to favour the project as you are; but I am now convinced it is my duty, and, I must add, that my inclination runs in the same direction.”

“Look here, Clarence, my boy,” here interrupted uncle John; “you can’t expect to live there as you do here; the prejudice against persons of colour is much stronger in some of the Northern cities than it is amongst us Southerners.  You can’t live with Emily there as you do here; you will be in everybody’s mouth.  You won’t be able to sustain your old connections with your Northern friends—­you’ll find that they will cut you dead.”

“I’ve looked at it well, uncle John.  I’ve counted the cost, and have made up my mind to meet with many disagreeable things.  If my old friends choose to turn their backs on me because my wife happens to belong to an oppressed race, that is not my fault.  I don’t feel that I have committed any sin by making the choice I have; and so their conduct or opinions won’t influence my happiness much.”