He rode home at a walk.  The situation of his firm was like that of many others, and now this April of 1860 business doubts, sectional feeling and love of country seemed to intensify the interest with which all classes looked forward to the Charleston Democratic Convention.

The Convention met on April 23rd.  It was grave and able.  There were daily prayers in the churches of Charleston for the success of Southern principles.  Henry Grey, a delegate, wrote to his sister: 

“The Douglas platform was adopted and at once the delegations of six cotton States withdrew.  We who cannot accept Douglas meet in Richmond.  It means secession unless the Republicans are reasonable when they nominate in Chicago.  Mr. Alexander Stephens predicts a civil war, which most men I meet here consider very unlikely.”

Ann handed this letter to her husband, saying, “This will interest you.”

He read it twice, and then said, “There is at least one man in the South who believes the North will fight—­Stephens.”

“But will it, James?” A predictive spectre of fear rose before her.

Slowly folding the letter he said, “Yes, the South does not know us.”  She walked away.

On May 16th the Republicans met in Chicago.  The news of the nomination of Lincoln came to the Squire as riding from the mills he met Dr. McGregor afoot.

“What, walking!” he said.  “I never before saw you afoot—­away from that saint of a mare.”

“Yes, my old mare got bit by something yesterday and kicked the gig to smithereens, and lamed her off hind-leg.”

“I will lend you a horse and a gig,” said Penhallow.

“Thanks,” said McGregor simply.  “I am sweating through my coat.”

“But don’t leave my horse half a day tied to a post—­any animal with horse-sense would kick.”

“As if I ever did—­but when the ladies keep me waiting.  Heard the good news?  No—­We have nominated Lincoln—­and Hamlin.”

“I preferred Seward.  You surprise me.  What of the platform?”

“Oh, good!  The Union, tariff, free soil.  You will like it.  The October elections in Pennsylvania will tell us who will win—­later you will have to take an active part.”

“No.  Come up to-morrow and get that horse—­No, I’ll send it.”

The Squire met Rivers on the avenue.  As he walked beside the horse, he said, “I am going to dine with you.”

“That is always good, but be on your guard about politics at Grey Pine.  Lincoln is nominated.”

“Thank God!  What do you think of it, Squire?”

“I think with you.  This is definite—­no more wabbling.  But rest assured, it means, if he is elected, secession, and in the end war.  We will try to avert it.  We will invent compromises, at which the South will laugh; at last, we will fight, Mark.  But we are a quiet commercial people and will not fight if we can avoid it.  They believe nothing will make us fight.  The average, every-day Northerner thinks the threat of secession is mere bluff.”