The blood flushed into Surrey’s face.  He opened his lips, and shut them again.  At last he said, “Father, will you never forego this cruel prejudice?”

“Never!” answered his mother, quickly.  “Never!” repeated his father, with bitter emphasis.  “It is a feeling that will never die out, and ought never to die out, so long as any of the race remain in America.  She belongs to it, that is enough.”

Surrey urged no further; but with few words, constrained on their part,—­though under its covering of pride the mother’s heart was bleeding for him,—­sad and earnest on his, the farewell was spoken, and they watched him out of the room.  How and when would they see him again?

There was one other call upon his time.  The day was wearing into the afternoon, but he would not neglect it.  This was to see his old protege, Abram Franklin, in whom he had never lost interest, and for whose welfare he had cared, though he had not seen him in more than two years.  He knew that Abram was ill, had been so for a long time, and wished to see him and speak to him a few friendly and cheering words,—­sure, from what the boy’s own hand had written, that this would be his last opportunity upon earth to so do.

Thus he went on from his father’s stately palace up Fifth Avenue, turned into the quiet side street, and knocked at the little green door.  Mrs. Franklin came to open it, her handsome face thinner and sadder than of old.  She caught Surrey’s hand between both of hers with a delighted cry:  “Is it you, Mr. Willie?  How glad I am to see you!  How glad Abram will be!  How good of you to come!” And, holding his hand as she used when he was a boy, she led him up stairs to the sick-room.  This room was even cosier than the two below; its curtains and paper cheerfuller; its furniture of quainter and more hospitable aspect; its windows letting in more light and air; everything clean and homely, and pleasant for weary, suffering eyes to look upon.

Abram was propped up in bed, his dark, intelligent face worn to a shadow, fiery spots breaking through the tawny hue upon cheeks and lips, his eyes bright with fever.  Surrey saw, as he came and sat beside him, that for him earthly sorrow and toil were almost ended.

He had brought some fruit and flowers, and a little book.  This last Abram, having thanked him eagerly for all, stretched out his hand to examine.

“You see, Mr. Willie, I have not gotten over my old love,” he said, as his fingers closed upon it.  “Whittier?  ‘In War-Time’?  That is fine.  I can read about it, if I can’t do anything in it,” and he lay for a while quietly turning over the pages.  Mrs. Franklin had gone out to do an errand, and the two were alone.

“Do you know, Mr. Willie,” said Abram, putting his finger upon the titles of two successive poems, “The Waiting,” and “The Summons,” “I had hard work to submit to this sickness a few months ago?  I fought against it strong; do you know why?”