“These are grits,” said she, “and these are arrowroot.”

“I know—­one of the phases of the potato.”

“Oh! for shame, Mr. Eden.  Well, I never!  And I posted your letter, sir.”

“What letter? what letter?”

“The long one.  I found it on the table.”

“You don’t mean you posted that letter?”

“Why, it was to go, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was to go, but it was wonderfully intelligent of you.”

“La!  Mr. Eden, don’t talk so; you make me ashamed.  Why, there was ‘immediate’ written on it in your own hand.  Was I to wake you up to ask whether that meant it was to stay here immediate, or go to London immediate?” Then she pondered a moment.  “He thinks I am a fool,” said she, in quiet explanation, without a shade of surprise or anger.

“Well!  Susan, my dear friend, you don’t know what a service you have done me!”

Susan glittered with pleasure.

“There!” cried he, “you have spared me this most unpleasant task,” and he flung his unfinished papers into a basket.  Mr. Eden congratulated himself in his way, i.e., thanked Heaven Susan had come there; the next thing was, he had a twinge of conscience.  “I half suspected Fry of taking it in the interest of Hawes, his friend.  Poor Fry, who is a brute, but as honest a man as myself, every bit.  He shall have his book, at all events.  I’ll put his name on it that I mayn’t forget it again.”  Mr. Eden took the book from its shelf, wrapped it in paper, and wrote on the cover, “For Mr. Fry from F. Eden.”  As the incidents of the day are ended, I may as well relate what this book was and how Fry came to ask for it.

The book was “Uncle Tom,” a story which discusses the largest human topic that ever can arise; for the human race is bisected into black and white.  Nowadays a huge subject greatly treated receives justice from the public, and “Uncle Tom” is written in many places with art, in all with red ink and with the biceps muscle.

Great by theme, and great by skill, and greater by a writer’s soul honestly flung into its pages, “Uncle Tom,” to the surprise of many that twaddle traditional phrases in reviews and magazines about the art of fiction, and to the surprise of no man who knows anything about the art of fiction, was all the rage.  Not to have read it was like not to have read the Times for a week.

Once or twice during the crucifixion of a prisoner Mr. Eden had said bitterly to Fry, “Have you read ‘Uncle Tom?’”

“No!” would Fry grunt.

But one day that the question was put to him he asked, with some appearance of interest, “Who is Uncle Tom?”

Then Mr. Eden began to reflect.  “Who knows?  The cases are in a great measure parallel.  Prisoners are a tabooed class in England, as are blacks in some few of the United States.  The lady writes better than I can talk.  If she once seizes his sympathies by the wonderful power of fiction, she will touch his conscience through his heart.  This disciple of Legree is fortified against me; Mrs. Stowe may take him off his guard.  He said slyly to Fry, ’Not know Uncle Tom!  Why it is a most interesting story—­a charming story.  There are things in it, too, that meet your case.’”