“You are from Washington?” I said at length.

He nodded.

“The country is going into deep water one way or the other,” said I.  “Virginia is going to divide on slavery.  It is not for me, nor for any of us, to hasten that time.  Trouble will come fast enough without our help.”

“I infer you did not wholly approve of my little effort the other evening.  I was simply looking at the matter from a logical standpoint.  It is perfectly clear that the old world must have cotton, that the Southern States must supply that cotton, and that slavery alone makes cotton possible for the world.  It is a question of geography rather than of politics; yet your Northern men make it a question of politics.  Your Congress is full of rotten tariff legislation, which will make a few of your Northern men rich—­and which will bring on this war quite as much as anything the South may do.  Moreover, this tariff disgusts England, very naturally.  Where will England side when the break comes?  And what will be the result when the South, plus England, fights these tariff makers over here?  I have no doubt that you, sir, know the complexion of all these neighborhood families in these matters.  I should be most happy if you could find it possible for me to meet your father and his neighbors, for in truth I am interested in these matters, merely as a student.  And I have heard much of the kindness of this country toward strangers.”

It was not our way in Virginia to allow persons of any breeding to put up at public taverns.  We took them to our homes.  I have seen a hundred horses around my father’s barns during the Quarterly Meetings of the Society of Friends.  Perhaps we did not scrutinize all our guests over-closely, but that was the way of the place.  I had no hesitation in saying to Mr. Orme that we should be glad to entertain him at Cowles’ Farms.  He was just beginning to thank me for this when we were suddenly interrupted.

We were sitting some paces from the room where landlord Sanderson kept his bar, so that we heard only occasionally the sound of loud talk which came through the windows.  But now came footsteps and confused words in voices, one of which I seemed to know.  There staggered through the door a friend of mine, Harry Singleton, a young planter of our neighborhood, who had not taken my father’s advice, but continued to divide his favor between farming, hunting and drinking.  He stood there leaning against the wall, his face more flushed than one likes to see a friend’s face before midday.

“Hullo, ol’ fel,” he croaked at me.  “Hurrah for C’fedrate States of America!”

“Very well,” I said to him, “suppose we do hurrah for the Confederate States of America.  But let us wait until there is such a thing.”

He glowered at me.  “Also,” he said, solemnly, “Hurrah for Miss Grace Sheraton, the pretties’ girl in whole C’federate States America!”

“Harry,” I cried, “stop!  You’re drunk, man.  Come on, I’ll take you home.”