“How can a man venture to speak, John, like Mr. Jefferson Davis?  Have you read his speech?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, he says the importation of Africans ought to be left to the States—­and the President.  He thinks that as Cuba is the only spot in the civilized world where the African slave-trade is permitted, its cession to us would put an end to that blot on civilization.  An end to it, indeed!  Think of it!” His voice rose as he spoke.  “End slavery and you end that accursed trade.  And to think that a woman like Ann Penhallow should think it right!” Neither John nor Leila were willing to discuss their aunt’s definitely held views.

“I think,” said Leila, who had listened silently, “Aunt Ann has lost or put aside her interest in politics.”

“I wish I could,” said John.  “But what do you mean, Leila?  She has never said so.”

“It’s just this.  Aunt Ann told me two weeks ago that Uncle Henry Grey was talked of as a delegate to the Democratic Convention to meet next year.  Now her newspapers remain unopened.  They are feeding these dissensions North and South.  No wonder she is tired of it all.  I am with Uncle Jim, but I hate to wrangle over politics like Senator Davis and this new man Lincoln—­oh, and the rest.  No good comes of it.  I can’t see it as you do, Mr. Rivers.”

“And yet, I am right,” said Rivers gravely.  “God knows.  It is in His hands.”

“What Aunt Ann thinks right,” said Leila, “can’t be so unpardonably wicked.”  She spoke softly.  “Oh, John, look at that squirrel.  She is carrying a young one on her back—­how pretty!  She has to do it.  What a lovely instinct.  It must be heavy.”

“I suppose,” said Rivers, “we all have loads we must carry, are born to carry—­”

“Like the South, sir,” said John.  “We can help neither the squirrel nor the South.  You think we can throw stones at the chipmunk and make her drop it—­and—­”

“Bad logic, John,” returned Rivers.  “But soon there will be stones thrown.”

“And who will cast the first stone?” rejoined Leila, rising.

“It is an ancient crime,” said Rivers.  “It was once ours, and it will be ours to end it.  Now I leave you to finish your walk; I am tired.”  As they moved away, he looked after them.  “Beauty, intelligence, perfect health—­oh, my God!”

In August with ever resisted temptation John Penhallow went back to West Point to take up his work again.

The autumn came, and in October, at night, the Squire read with dismay and anger of the tragic attempt of John Brown at Harper’s Ferry.  “My poor Ann,” he exclaimed.  He went at once from his library back to the hall, where Leila was reading aloud.  “Ann,” he said, “have you seen the papers to-day?”

“I have read no paper for a month, James.  They only fill me with grief and the sense of how helpless I am—­even—­even—­with those I love.  What is it now, James?”

“An insane murderer named John Brown has made an attack on Harper’s Perry with a dozen or so of infatuated followers.”  He went on to tell briefly the miserable story of a madman’s folly.