“Candace, the Doctor wishes to see you,” said Mrs. Marvyn.

“Bress his heart!” said Candace, looking up, perplexed.  “Wants to see me, does he?  Can’t nobody hab me till dis yer coffee’s done; a minnit’s a minnit in coffee;—­but I’ll be in dereckly,” she added, in a patronizing tone.  “Missis, you jes’ go ‘long in, an’ I’ll be dar dereckly.”

A few moments after, Candace joined the group in the sitting-room, having hastily tied a clean, white apron over her blue linsey working-dress, and donned the brilliant Madras which James had lately given her, and which she had a barbaric fashion of arranging so as to give to her head the air of a gigantic butterfly.  She sunk a dutiful curtsy, and stood twirling her thumbs, while the Doctor surveyed her gravely.

“Candace,” said he, “do you think it right that the black race should be slaves to the white?”

The face and air of Candace presented a curious picture at this moment; a sort of rude sense of delicacy embarrassed her, and she turned a deprecating look, first on Mrs. Marvyn and then on her master.

“Don’t mind us, Candace,” said Mrs. Marvyn; “tell the Doctor the exact truth.”

Candace stood still a moment, and the spectators saw a deeper shadow roll over her sable face, like a cloud over a dark pool of water, and her immense person heaved with her labored breathing.

“Ef I must speak, I must,” she said.  “No,—­I neber did tink ’twas right.  When Gineral Washington was here, I hearn ’em read de Declaration ob Independence and Bill o’ Rights; an’ I tole Cato den, says I, ’Ef dat ar’ true, you an’ I are as free as anybody.’  It stands to reason.  Why, look at me,—­I a’n’t a critter.  I’s neider huffs nor horns.  I’s a reasonable bein’,—­a woman,—­as much a woman as anybody,” she said, holding up her head with an air as majestic as a palm-tree;—­“an’ Cato,—­he’s a man, born free an’ equal, ef dar’s any truth in what you read,—­dat’s all.”

“But, Candace, you’ve always been contented and happy with us, have you not?” said Mr. Marvyn.

“Yes, Mass’r,—­I ha’n’t got nuffin to complain ob in dat matter.  I couldn’t hab no better friends ‘n you an’ Missis.”

“Would you like your liberty, if you could get it, though?” said Mr. Marvyn, “Answer me honestly.”

“Why, to be sure I should!  Who wouldn’t?  Mind ye,” she said, earnestly raising her black, heavy hand, “’ta’n’t dat I want to go off, or want to shirk work; but I want to feel free.  Dem dat isn’t free has nuffin to gib to nobody;—­dey can’t show what dey would do.”

“Well, Candace, from this day you are free,” said Mr. Marvyn, solemnly.

Candace covered her face with both her fat hands, and shook and trembled, and, finally, throwing her apron over her head, made a desperate rush for the door, and threw herself down in the kitchen in a perfect tropical torrent of tears and sobs.

“You see,” said the Doctor, “what freedom is to every human creature.  The blessing of the Lord will be on this deed, Mr. Marvyn.  ’The steps of a just man are ordered by the Lord, and he delighteth in his way.’”