consideration,—­it shows a knowledge of right, and a deep sense of gratitude for kindness bestowed.  Mrs. Rosebrook alights from the carriage, receives their warm congratulations, and, turning to Mr. Scranton, touches him on the arm, and remarks:—­“Now, here they are.  Poor old bodies,”—­taking them by the hand in rotation-just like as many children.  “What do you think of them, Mr. Scranton? do you not find a softening sympathy creeping upon you?  I forgot, though, your political responsibility!  Ah! that is the point with statesmen.  You feel a touch of conscience once in a while, but cannot speak for fear of the consequences.”  And she laughs heartily at Mr. Scranton, who draws his face into a very serious length.  “Pest the niggers!” he says, as they gather at his feet, asking all sorts of importune questions.

“My good lady is a regular reformer, you see, Mr. Scranton,” rejoins the deacon, as he follows that gentleman into the hall.

Mr. Scranton remarks, in reply, that such does not become caste, and two pompous-looking servants set upon him brushing the dirt from his clothes with great earnestness.  The negroes understand Mr. Scranton at a glance; he is an amiable stoic!

Mrs. Rosebrook disappears for a few minutes, and returns minus her bonnet and mantle.  She delights to have the old and the young around her,—­to study their characters, to hear their stories, their grievances, and to relieve their wants.  “These little black imps,” she says, patting them on the head as they toddle around her, “They’re just as full of interest as their shiny black skins are full of mischief;” and one after another, with hand extended, they seek a recognition; and she takes them in her arms, fondling them with the affection of a nurse.

“Here’s Toby, too; the little cunning rascal!  He is as sleek as a mole, a young coon,” she ejaculates, stooping down and playfully working her fingers over Toby’s crispy hair, as he sits upon the grass in front of the house, feasting on a huge sweet potato, with which he has so bedaubed his face that it looks like a mask with the terrific portrayed in the rolling of two immense white eyes.  “And here is Nichol Garvio!” and she turns to another, pats him on the head, and shakes his hand.  “We mean to make a great man of him, you see,—­he has head enough to make a Congress man; who knows but that he’ll get there when he grows up?”

“Congress, happily, is beyond niggers,” replies Mr. Scranton, approving the lady:  “Congress is pure yet!” Turning round, she recommends Mr. Scranton to put his northern prejudices in his pocket, where they will be safe when required for the purposes of the south.  “A nigger ’s a nigger all over the world,” rejoins Mr. Scranton, significantly shrugging his shoulders and casting a doubtful glance at the young type.