Then the Colonel got to his feet, and bowed to Stephen with ceremony.

“Whatever you believe, sir,” he said, “permit me to shake your hand.  You are a brave man, sir.  And although my own belief is that the black race is held in subjection by a divine decree, I can admire what you have done, Mr. Brice.  It was a noble act, sir,—­a right noble act.  And I have more respect for the people of Boston, now, sir, than I ever had before, sir.”

Having delivered himself of this somewhat dubious compliment (which he meant well), the Colonel departed.

Judge Whipple said nothing.

CHAPTER VII

CALLERS

If the Brices had created an excitement upon their arrival, it was as nothing to the mad delirium which raged at Miss Crane’s boarding-house. during the second afternoon of their stay.  Twenty times was Miss Crane on the point of requesting Mrs. Brice to leave, and twenty times, by the advice of Mrs. Abner Deed, she desisted.  The culmination came when the news leaked out that Mr. Stephen Brice had bought the young woman in order to give her freedom.  Like those who have done noble acts since the world began, Stephen that night was both a hero and a fool.  The cream from which heroes is made is very apt to turn.

“Phew!” cried Stephen, when they had reached their room after tea, “wasn’t that meal a fearful experience?  Let’s find a hovel, mother, and go and live in it.  We can’t stand it here any longer.”

“Not if you persist in your career of reforming an Institution, my son,” answered the widow, smiling.

“It was beastly hard luck,” said he, “that I should have been shouldered with that experience the first day.  But I have tried to think it over calmly since, and I can see nothing else to have done.”  He paused in his pacing up and down, a smile struggling with his serious look.  “It was quite a hot-headed business for one of the staid Brices, wasn’t it?”

“The family has never been called impetuous,” replied his mother.  “It must be the Western air.”

He began his pacing again.  His mother had not said one word about the money.  Neither had he.  Once more he stopped before her.

“We are at least a year nearer the poor-house,” he said; “you haven’t scolded me for that.  I should feel so much better if you would.”

“Oh, Stephen, don’t say that!” she exclaimed.  “God has given me no greater happiness in this life than the sight of the gratitude of that poor creature, Nancy.  I shall never forget the old woman’s joy at the sight of her daughter.  It made a palace out of that dingy furniture shop.  Hand me my handkerchief, dear.”

Stephen noticed with a pang that the lace of it was frayed and torn at the corner.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Mrs. Brice, hastily putting the handkerchief down.

Hester stood on the threshold, and old Nancy beside her.