“I am greatly indebted—­I was given to understand that it was disagreeable to you—­like—­politics—­ah!  Cousin Ann.”

“We are not much given to talking politics,” she said rather sharply.

“Not talk politics!” exclaimed Grey.  “What else is there to talk about nowadays?  But why not, Cousin Ann?”

“Well, merely because while I am Southern—­and a Democrat, James has seen fit to abandon our party and become a Republican.”

“Incomprehensible!” said Grey.  “Ours is the party of gentlemen—­of old traditions.  I cannot understand it.”

“Nor I,” said she, “but now at least,” and she laughed—­“there will be one Republican gentleman.  However, George, as we are both much in earnest, we keep politics out of the house.”

“It must be rather awkward, Ann.”

“What must be rather awkward?”

Did he really mean to discuss, to criticize her relations to James Penhallow?  The darkness was for a time the grateful screen.

Grey, a courteous man, felt the reproof in her question, and replied, “I beg pardon, my dear Ann, I have heard of the captain’s unfortunate change of opinion.  I shall hope, however, to be able to convince him that to elect Fremont will be to break up the Union.  I think I could put it so clearly that—­”

Ann laughed low laughter as vastly amused she laid a hand on her cousin’s arm.  “You don’t know James Penhallow.  He has been from his youth a Democrat.  There never was any question about how he would vote.  But now, since 1850—­” and she paused, “in fact, I do not care to discuss with you what I will not with James.”  Her great love, her birth, training, education and respect for the character of her husband, made this discussion hateful.  Her eyes filled, and, much troubled, she was glad of the mask of night.

“But answer me one question, Ann.  Why did he change?”

“He was becoming dissatisfied and losing faith in his own party, but it was at last my own dear South and its friends at the North who drove him out.”  Again she paused.

“What do you mean, Ann?” asked Grey, still persistent.

“It began long ago, George.  He said to me one day, ’That fool Fillmore has signed the Fugitive-Slave Act; it is hardly possible to obey it.’  Then I said, ‘Would you not, James?’ I can never forget it.  He said, ’Yes, I obey the law, Ann, but this should be labelled ’an act to exasperate the North.’  I am done with the Democrat and all his ways.  Obey the law!  Yes, I was a soldier.’  Then he said, ’Ann, we must never talk politics again.’  We never do.”

“And yet, Ann,” said Grey, “that act was needed.”

“Perhaps,” she returned, and then followed a long silence, as with thought of James Penhallow she sat smiling in the darkness and watched the rare wandering lanterns of the belated fireflies.