“The whole North is mad,” said Ann, not looking up, but knitting faster as she spoke, “mad—­the abolitionists of Boston are behind it.”  It was too miserably true.  “Thank you, James, for wanting to make me see in this only insanity.”

The Squire stood still, watched by the pitiful gaze of Leila.  “I want you, Ann—­I wanted you to see, dear, to feel how every thoughtful man in the North condemns the wickedness of this, and of any, attempt to cause insurrection among the slaves.”

“Yes—­yes, of course—­no doubt—­but it is the natural result of Northern sentiment.”

“Oh, Aunt Ann!”

“Keep quiet, child!”

“You should not have talked politics to me, James.”

“But, my God, Ann, this is not politics!” He looked down at her flushed face and with the fatal newspaper in his hand stood still a moment, and then went back to his library.  There he stayed before the fire, distressed beyond measure.  “Just so,” he said, “the South will take it—­just so.”

Ann Penhallow said, “Where did you leave off, Leila?  Go on, my dear, with the book.”

“I can’t.  You were cruel to Uncle Jim—­and he was so dear and sweet.”

“If you can’t read, you had better go to bed.”  Leila broke into tears and stumbled up the stairs with half-blinded eyes.

Ann sat long, hearing Penhallow’s steps as he walked to and fro.  Then she let fall her knitting, rose, and went into the library.

“James, forgive me.  I was unjust to say such things—­I was—­”

“Please don’t,” he cried, and took her in his arms.  “Oh, my love,” he said, “we have darker days than this before us.  If only there was between North and South love like ours—­there is not.  We at least shall love on to the end—­no matter what happens.”

The tearful face looked up, “And you do forgive me?” “Forgive!  There is no need for any such word in the dictionary of love.”  Between half-hysterical laughter and ready tears, she gasped, “Where did you get that prettiness?”

“Read it in a book, you goosey.  Go to bed.”

“No, not yet.  This crime or craze will make mischief?”

“Yes, Ann, out of all proportion to the thing.  The South will be in a frenzy, and the North filled with regret and horror.  Now go to bed—­we have behaved like naughty children.”

“Oh, James, must I be put in a corner?”

“Yes—­of my heart.  Now, good night.”

November passed.  The man who had sinned was fairly tried, and on December 2nd went to a well-deserved death.  Penhallow refused to talk of him to Rivers, who praised the courage of his last hours.

“Mark,” he said, “have been twice or thrice sure I was to die—­and I have seen two murderers hanged, and I do assure you that neither they nor I were visibly disturbed.  The fact is, when a fellow is sure to be put to death, he is either dramatic—­as this madman was—­or quietly undemonstrative.  Martyr!  Nonsense!  It was simply stupid.  I don’t want to talk about it.  Those mischief-makers in Congress will howl over it.”  They did, and secession was ever in the air.