“Pray, ma’am,” he said, “what have you done with your slave?”

Mrs. Cluyme emitted a muffled shriek, like that of a person frightened in a dream.  Her husband grasped the curved back of his chair.  But Stephen smiled.  And his mother smiled a little, too.

“Are you Mr. Whipple?” she asked.

“I am, madam,” was the reply.

“My slave is upstairs, I believe, unpacking my trunks,” said Mrs. Brice.

Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme exchanged a glance of consternation.  Then Mrs. Cluyme sat down again, rather heavily, as though her legs had refused to hold her.

“Well, well, ma’am!” The Judge looked again at Mrs. Brice, and a gleam of mirth lighted the severity of his face.  He was plainly pleased with her —­this serene lady in black, whose voice had the sweet ring of women who are well born and whose manner was so self-contained.  To speak truth, the Judge was prepared to dislike her.  He had never laid eyes upon her, and as he walked hither from his house he seemed to foresee a helpless little woman who, once he had called, would fling her Boston pride to the winds and dump her woes upon him.  He looked again, and decidedly approved of Mrs. Brice, and was unaware that his glance embarrassed her.

“Mr. Whipple,” she said,—­“do you know Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme?”

The Judge looked behind him abruptly, nodded ferociously at Mr. Cluyme, and took the hand that fluttered out to him from Mrs. Cluyme.

“Know the Judge!” exclaimed that lady, “I reckon we do.  And my Belle is so fond of him.  She thinks there is no one equal to Mr. Whipple.  Judge, you must come round to a family supper.  Belle will surpass herself.”

“Umph!” said the Judge, “I think I like Edith best of your girls, ma’am.”

“Edith is a good daughter, if I do say it myself,” said Mrs. Cluyme.  “I have tried to do right by my children.”  She was still greatly flustered, and curiosity about the matter of the slave burned upon her face.  Neither the Judge nor Mrs. Brice were people one could catechise.  Stephen, scanning the Judge, was wondering how far he regarded the matter as a joke.

“Well, madam,” said Mr. Whipple, as he seated himself on the other end of the horsehair sofa, “I’ll warrant when you left Boston that you did not expect to own a slave the day after you arrived in St. Louis.”

“But I do not own her,” said Mrs. Brice.  “It is my son who owns her.”

This was too much for Mr. Cluyme.

“What!” he cried to Stephen.  “You own a slave?  You, a mere boy, have bought a negress?”

“And what is more, sir, I approve of it,” the Judge put in, severely.  “I am going to take the young man into my office.”

Mr. Cluyme gradually retired into the back of his chair, looking at Mr. Whipple as though he expected him to touch a match to the window curtains.  But Mr. Cluyme was elastic.

“Pardon me, Judge,” said he, “but I trust that I may be allowed to congratulate you upon the abandonment of principles which I have considered a clog to your career.  They did you honor, sir, but they were Quixotic.  I, sir, am for saving our glorious Union at any cost.  And we have no right to deprive our brethren of their property of their very means of livelihood.”