“Or Fortunatus’s purse, which was always full,” added old Mr. Delamere, who read the Latin poets, and whose allusions were apt to be classical rather than scriptural.

“It will last me while I live,” said Mrs. Ochiltree, adding cautiously, “but there’ll not be a great deal left.  It won’t take much to support an old woman for twenty years.”

Mr. Delamere’s man Sandy had been waiting upon the table with the decorum of a trained butler, and a gravity all his own.  He had changed his suit of plain gray for a long blue coat with brass buttons, which dated back to the fashion of a former generation, with which he wore a pair of plaid trousers of strikingly modern cut and pattern.  With his whiskers, his spectacles, and his solemn air of responsibility, he would have presented, to one unfamiliar with the negro type, an amusingly impressive appearance.  But there was nothing incongruous about Sandy to this company, except perhaps to Tom Delamere, who possessed a keen eye for contrasts and always regarded Sandy, in that particular rig, as a very comical darkey.

“Is it quite prudent, Mrs. Ochiltree,” suggested the major at a moment when Sandy, having set down the tray, had left the room for a little while, “to mention, in the presence of the servants, that you keep money in the house?”

“I beg your pardon, major,” observed old Mr. Delamere, with a touch of stiffness.  “The only servant in hearing of the conversation has been my own; and Sandy is as honest as any man in Wellington.”

“You mean, sir,” replied Carteret, with a smile, “as honest as any negro in Wellington.”

“I make no exceptions, major,” returned the old gentleman, with emphasis.  “I would trust Sandy with my life,—­he saved it once at the risk of his own.”

“No doubt,” mused the major, “the negro is capable of a certain doglike fidelity,—­I make the comparison in a kindly sense,—­a certain personal devotion which is admirable in itself, and fits him eminently for a servile career.  I should imagine, however, that one could more safely trust his life with a negro than his portable property.”

“Very clever, major!  I read your paper, and know that your feeling is hostile toward the negro, but”—­

The major made a gesture of dissent, but remained courteously silent until Mr. Delamere had finished.

“For my part,” the old gentleman went on, “I think they have done very well, considering what they started from, and their limited opportunities.  There was Adam Miller, for instance, who left a comfortable estate.  His son George carries on the business, and the younger boy, William, is a good doctor and stands well with his profession.  His hospital is a good thing, and if my estate were clear, I should like to do something for it.”

“You are mistaken, sir, in imagining me hostile to the negro,” explained Carteret.  “On the contrary, I am friendly to his best interests.  I give him employment; I pay taxes for schools to educate him, and for court-houses and jails to keep him in order.  I merely object to being governed by an inferior and servile race.”