Mrs. Smith did not care for the south or southern people; their thoughts were not her thoughts, nor their ways, her ways.  In her ignorance, she classed them low in the scale of civilization, deeming them an unprofitable race, whose days were given over to sloth, and their nights to armed and malignant prowling.  For the colored people of the censured states, she had a profound and far-off sympathy, viewing them from an unreal and romantic standpoint.  This tender attitude was mental; physically she shrank from them with disgust, and it was not the least of the crosses entailed by a residence in the south that she would be obliged to endure colored servants.

But all this was trifling and unimportant in comparison with the main issue, Warner’s health.  To secure the shadow of hope for her boy, Mrs. Smith decided that any thing short of cannibalism in her future surroundings would be endurable.

The information gleaned from her husband was faithfully repeated by Mrs. Smith to her daughters, with some innocent exaggeration and unconscious embellishment.  She always wanted to make things pleasant for the children.

Blanche looked up from her crewel sun-flowers with reviving interest, but Norma walked over to the window, and stood drumming on the panes, and regarding the passers with a lowering brow.

“I wonder what Nesbit Thorne will think of it all?” she remarked, after an interval of silence, giving voice to the inwardness of her discontent.

“He’ll hate it!” spoke Blanche, with conviction; “he’ll abhor it, just as we do.  I know he will.”  Blanche always followed her sister’s lead, and when Norma was cross considered it her duty to be tearful.  She was only disagreeable now because Norma was.

Percival, the youngest of the family, a spoiled and lively lad of twelve, to whom the prospect of change was rapture, took up the last remark indignantly.

“Nesbit won’t do anything of the kind,” quoth he.  “Nesbit isn’t a spoiled, airified idiot of a girl.  He’s got sense enough to appreciate hunting and fishing and the things that are of importance to men.  I guess he’ll want to come to Shirley this autumn for his shooting, instead of going down to North Carolina.”  Norma stopped her tattoo and turned her head slightly; the boy, observing that he had scored a point, proceeded:  “Just the minute he gets back from Montana, I’m going to tell him all about Shirley and beg him to come.  And if he does, I’m going gunning with him every day, and make him teach me how to shoot—­see if I don’t,” regarding his mother from under his tawny brows threateningly.  Percival’s nature was adventurous and unruly:  he had red hair.

“Nesbit got back last night,” announced Warner from his sofa beside the other window.  “I saw him pass the house this morning.  There he is now, coming up the street.  If his opinion is a matter of such importance, you can call him over and get it.  I don’t see that it makes any difference what he thinks, myself.”  The latter part of the sentence was muttered in an unheeded undertone.