“You don’t comprehend me, my friend Marston:  I mean that you should prepare-it’s a rule applicable to all-to meet the terrible that may come upon us at any moment.”  The Elder is fearful that he is not quite explicit enough.  He continues:  “Well, there is something to be considered;"-he is not quite certain that we should curtail the pleasures of this life by binding ourselves with the dread of what is to come.  “Seems as if we owed a common duty to ourselves,” he ejaculates.

The conversation became more exciting, Marston facetiously attempting to be humorous at the Elder’s expense:  “It isn’t the pleasure, my dear fellow, it’s the contentment.  We were all born to an end; and if that end be to labour through life for others, it must be right.  Everything is right that custom has established right.”

“Marston, give us your hand, my friend.  ’Twould do to plead so if we had no enemies, but enemies are upon us, watching our movements through partizans’ eyes, full of fierceness, and evil to misconstruct.”

“I care not,” interrupts Marston.  “My slaves are my property-I shall do with them as it pleases me; no insinuations about morality, or I shall mark you on an old score.  Do you sound?  Good Elders should be good men; but they, as well as planters, have their frailties; it would not do to tell them all, lest high heaven should cry out.”  Marston points his finger, and laughs heartily.  “I wish we had seven lives to live, and they were all as happy as most of our planters could desire to make them.”

The Elder understood the delicate hint, but desiring to avoid placing himself in an awkward position before the Deacon, began to change the conversation, criticising the merits of several old pictures hung upon the walls.  They were much valued by Marston, as mementoes of his ancestry:  of this the Elder attempted in vain to make a point.  During this conversation, so disguised in meaning, the mulatto servant stood at the door waiting Marston’s commands.  Soon, wine and refreshments were brought in, and spread out in old plantation style.  The company had scarcely filled glasses, when a rap sounded at the hall door:  a servant hastened to announce a carriage; and in another minute was ushered into the room the graceful figure of a young lady whose sweet and joyous countenance bespoke the absence of care.  She was followed by a genteelly-dressed young man of straight person and placid features.

“Oh!  Franconia,” said Marston, rising from his seat, grasping her hand affectionately, and bestowing a kiss on her fair cheek, for it was fair indeed.

Taking her right hand in his left, he added, “My niece, gentlemen; my brother’s only daughter, and nearly spoiled with attentions.”  A pleasant smile stole over her face, as gracefully she acknowledged the compliment.  In another minute three or four old negroes, moved by the exuberance of their affection for her, gathered about her, contending with anxious faces for the honour of seeing her comfortable.