Mr. Lloyd Tomlinson, as he advanced in years, and felt the paralyzing effects of the severe afflictions he had suffered, lost much of the energy he had possessed in his younger days.  There was a gradual diminution in the number of hogsheads of tobacco and bushels of corn and wheat that went into Richmond from his plantation annually; and there was also a steady decrease in the slave population with which he was immediately surrounded.  From a hundred and fifty, his slaves had decreased, until he only owned thirty, and with them did little more than make his yearly expenses.  Field after field had been abandoned, and left to a fertile undergrowth of pines or scrubby oaks, until there were few signs of cultivation, except within the limits of two or three hundred acres of the rich lands contiguous to his dwelling.

Henry Denton, the young attorney to whom allusion has been made, had become deeply enamoured with Edith Tomlinson, who was often met by him in her unaristocratic intercourse with several excellent and highly intelligent families in the neighbourhood.  To see her, was for him to love her; but the pride of her father was too well known by him to leave much room for hope that the issue of his passion would be successful, even if so fortunate as to win the heart of the maiden.  He was inspired with courage, however, by the evident favour with which she regarded him, and even tempted to address her in language that no woman’s ear could mistake—­the language of love.  Edith listened with a heart full of hope and fear.  She had great respect for the character of Denton, which she saw was based upon virtuous principles; and this respect easily changed into love that was true and fervent; but she knew too well her father’s deeply-rooted prejudices in favour of rank and family, to hope that the current of her love would run smooth.  This proved to be no idle fear.  When Henry Denton ventured to approach Mr. Tomlinson on the subject of his love for Edith, the old gentleman received him with great discourtesy.

“Who are you, sir?” he asked, drawing himself proudly up.

“I hardly think you need ask that question,” the young man replied.  “I am not an entire stranger to you, nor unknown in your neighbourhood.”

“But who are you, sir?  That is what I ask to know.  Who is your father?”

“An honest man, sir.”  The young man spoke with firmness and dignity.

“Humph! there are plenty of them about.  I could marry my daughter to an honest man any day I liked.  Old Cato, my coachman, is an honest man; but that is no reason why I should let his son Sam marry Edith.  No, my young friend, you cannot connect yourself with my family; be content with the daughter of some honest man like your father.”

But the lover was not to be driven off by even such a rude repulse.  He tried to argue his case, but Mr. Tomlinson cut the matter short by starting from his seat in great discomposure of mind, and pointing with a trembling hand to a grim picture on the wall, while he thus addressed the young man:—­