“Laws, Miss Scudder,” she said, “I’s right glad you’s comin’; ’cause you hasn’t seen how we’s kind o’ splendified since Massa Jim come home.  You wouldn’t know it.  Why, he’s got mats from Mogadore on all de entries, and a great big ’un on de parlor; and ye ought to see de shawl he brought Missus, an’ all de cur’us kind o’ tings to de Squire.  ’Tell ye, dat ar’ boy honors his fader and mudder, ef he don’t do nuffin else,—­an’ dat’s de fus’ commandment wid promise, Ma’am; an’ to see him a-settin’ up ebery day in prayer-time, so handsome, holdin’ Missus’s han’, an’ lookin’ right into her eyes all de time!  Why, dat ar’ boy is one o’ de ’lect,—­it’s jest as clare to me; and de ’lect has got to come in,—­dat’s what I say.  My faith’s strong,—­real clare, ’tell ye,” she added, with the triumphant laugh which usually chorused her conversation, and turning to the Doctor, who, aroused by her loud and vigorous strain, was attending with interest to her.

“Well, Candace,” he said, “we all hope you are right.”

“Hope, Doctor!—­I don’t hope,—­I knows.  ’Tell ye, when I pray for him, don’t I feel enlarged?  ’Tell ye, it goes wid a rush.  I can feel it gwine up like a rushin’, mighty wind.  I feels strong, I do.”

“That’s right, Candace,” said the Doctor, “keep on; your prayers stand as much chance with God as if you were a crowned queen.  The Lord is no respecter of persons.”

“Dat’s what he a’n’t, Doctor,—­an’ dere’s where I ’gree wid him,” said Candace, as she gathered her baskets vigorously together, and, after a sweeping curtsy, went sailing down to her wagon, full laden with content, shouting a hearty “Good mornin’, Missus,” with the full power of her cheerful lungs, as she rode off.

As the Doctor looked after her, the simple, pleased expression with which he had watched her gradually faded, and there passed over his broad, good face a shadow, as of a cloud on a mountain-side.

“What a shame it is,” he said, “what a scandal and disgrace to the Protestant religion, that Christians of America should openly practise and countenance this enslaving of the Africans!  I have for a long time holden my peace,—­may the Lord forgive me!—­but I believe the time is coming when I must utter my voice.  I cannot go down to the wharves or among the shipping, without these poor dumb creatures look at me so that I am ashamed,—­as if they asked me what I, a Christian minister, was doing, that I did not come to their help.  I must testify.”

Mrs. Scudder looked grave at this earnest announcement; she had heard many like it before, and they always filled her with alarm, because—­Shall we tell you why?