This was the town of James K. Polk, whose name meant nothing to me; but Dorothy spoke of him as a leading man in Congress from Tennessee.  Here also was the residence of President Jackson, a place called the “Hermitage,” a few miles into the country.  Dorothy and I drove to it.  These were the places of interest to see; and everywhere the southern mansion:  the upper and lower porch in front, the spacious windows, the Dorian or Ionic columns, as the case might be; the great entrance door set between mullioned panes at either side, and beneath a lunette of woodwork and glass.  The Clayton house was like this, for Dorothy’s father had been a man of wealth, a slave owner too in his prosperous days.  He had failed and died, Reverdy had gone to the newer country of Illinois to seek his fortune, leaving Dorothy and the mother to the possession of the diminished property which Mr. Clayton had left.

But above everything in the way of delight, for the beauty of the prospect, for the opportunity it gave me to be with Dorothy, were the hills that overlooked the Cumberland valley and the river.  We climbed here daily and sat beneath the lovely oaks that shaded the richness of the grass.  To the west and north the river flowed to its confluence with the Ohio.  Around us the hills.  The valley between.  The silence of nature, the intensity of unfolding life around us.  Always on my mind was the thought of Dorothy as my wife.  And why not speak my heart?  I could not tell why.  Was it Zoe; Dorothy’s knowledge of Zoe?  Was I investing Dorothy with my own thoughts, putting into her mouth the objections that I could make against myself?  I could not tell what Zoe might bring into the life of the woman I married, as well as my own.  Surely I was not very robust, very hearty in my speculations.  For Dorothy had received me.  There was nothing lacking in the warmth of her hospitality ... and yet I sensed at times such a temperate feeling in her glance, in her voice.  Even her frankness had that character, or enhanced it perhaps.

And one afternoon as we were walking along the river I spoke what was in my heart.  I had this competence.  I had built the house.  I could make a fortune in time.  I was beginning to need some one to help me, to be with me.  And no sooner had I spoken than I saw myself:  Zoe was my half-sister and I was proposing marriage to a girl who had no feeling that did not bespeak to her the inferiority of the colored skin, no matter if it were lightened, no matter by whom.  Dorothy’s attitude was that of the high-bred and kindly southerner:  the negroes must be kept in slavery as a solution of the social question and for the prosperity of the South; but at the same time the negro should be treated with kindness.  And here was Zoe, the half-sister of the man who was asking her to be his companion for life.  To what extent, then, the associate on a basis of equality with Zoe too?  This was not all.  My name had been coupled with Zoe’s.  Above all, I had killed a man, my rival or Zoe’s hunter, as one might choose to believe.