“Oh, Mr. Penhallow,” said the old farmer who presided, “I beg of you—­”

“Keep quiet,” said the Squire, “this is my business.”

“I did not mean to insult Mrs. Penhallow,” said Swallow; “I apologize—­I—­”

“You miserable dog,” said Penhallow, “you are both a coward and a lying, usurious plunderer of hard-working men.  You may be thankful that I am a good-tempered man—­but take care.”

“I shall ask this board to remember what has been said of me,” said Swallow.  “The law—­”

“Law!  The law of the cowhide is what you will get if I hear again that you have used my wife’s name.  Good-day, gentlemen.”

He went our furious and rode homeward at speed.  Before the Squire reached Grey Pine he had recovered his temper and his habitual capacity to meet the difficulties of life with judicial calmness.  He had long been sure that Josiah had been a slave and had run away.  But after these years, that he should have been discovered in this remote little town seemed to him singular.  The man was useful to him in several ways and had won his entire respect and liking, so that he felt personal annoyance because of this valuable servant having been scared away.  That Ann had been in any way concerned in aiding his escape perplexed him, as he remembered how entire was her belief in the creed of the masters of slaves who with their Northern allies had so long been the controlling legislative power of the country.

“I am glad to be at home, my dear Ann,” he said, as they met on the porch.  “Ah!  Grey, so you are come at last.  It is not too late to say how very welcome you are; and John, I believe you have grown an inch since I left.”

They went in, chatting and merry.  The Squire cast an amused look at the big spittoon and then at his wife, and went upstairs to dress for dinner.  At the meal no one for a variety of good reasons mentioned Josiah.  The tall soldier with the readiness of helpless courtesy fell into the talk of politics which Grey desired.  “Yes, Buchanan will carry the State, Grey, but by no large majority.”

“And the general election?” asked the cousin.

“Yes, that is my fear.  He will be elected.”

Ann, who dreaded these discussions, had just now a reproachful political conscience.  She glanced at her husband expecting him to defend his beliefs.  He was silent, however, while Grey exclaimed, “Fear, sir—­fear?  You surely cannot mean to say—­to imply that the election of a black Republican would be desirable.”  He laid down his fork and was about to become untimely eloquent—­Rivers smiled—­watching the Squire and his wife, as Penhallow said: 

“Pardon me, Grey, but I cannot have my best mutton neglected.”

“Oh, yes—­yes—­but a word—­a word.  Elect Fremont—­and we secede.  Elect Buchanan—­and the Union is safe.  There, sir, you have it in a nutshell.”

“Ah, my dear Grey,” said Penhallow, “this is rather of the nature of a threat—­never a very digestible thing—­for me, at least—­and I am not very convincible.  We will discuss it over our wine or a cigar.”  He turned to his wife, “Any news of Leila, Ann?”