"I reckon we're going to have war, Silas," said he, slowly; "but don't

you think that your Mr. Lincoln scares me into that belief. I don't count

his bluster worth a cent. No sirree! It's this youngster who comes out

here from Boston and buys a nigger with all the money he's got in the

world. And if he's an impetuous young fool; I'm no judge of men."

"Appleton Brice wasn't precisely impetuous," remarked Mr. Whipple. And he

smiled a little bitterly, as though the word had stirred a memory.

"I like that young fellow," Mr. Carvel continued. "It seems to be a kind

of fatality with me to get along with Yankees. I reckon there's a screw

loose somewhere, but Brice acted the man all the way through. He goa a

fall out of you, Silas, in your room, after the show. Where are you

going, Jinny?"

Virginia had risen, and she was standing very erects with a flush on her

face, waiting for her father to finish.

"To see Anne Brinsmade," she said. "Good-by, Uncle Silas."

She had called him so from childhood. Hers was the one voice that seemed

to soften him--it never failed. He turned to her now with a movement that

was almost gentle. "Virginia, I should like you to know my young Yankee,"

said he.

"Thank you, Uncle Silas," said the girl, with dignity, "but I scarcely

think that he would care to know me. He feels so strongly."

"He feels no stronger than I do," replied the Judge.

"You have gotten used to me in eighteen years, and besides," she flashed,

"you never spent all the money you had in the world for a principle."

Mr. Whipple smiled as she went out of the door.

"I have spent pretty near all," he said. But more to himself than to the

Colonel.

That evening, some young people came in to tea, two of the four big

Catherwood boys, Anne Brinsmade and her brother Jack, Puss Russell and

Bert, and Eugenie Renault. But Virginia lost her temper. In an evil

moment Puss Russell started the subject of the young Yankee who had

deprived her of Hester. Puss was ably seconded by Jack Brinsmade, whose

reputation as a tormentor extended far back into his boyhood. In vain;

did Anne, the peacemaker, try to quench him, while the big Catherwoods

and Bert Russell laughed incessantly. No wonder that Virginia was angry.

She would not speak to Puss as that young lady bade her good night. And

the Colonel, coming home from an evening with Mr, Brinsmade, found his

daughter in an armchair, staring into the sitting-room fire. There was no

other light in the room Her chin was in her hand, and her lips were

pursed.

"Heigho!" said the Colonel, "what's the trouble now?"

"Nothing," said Virginia.

"Come," he insisted, "what have they been doing to my girl?"

"Pa!"

"Yes, honey."

"I don't want to go to balls all my life. I want to go to

boarding-school, and learn something. Emily is going to Monticello after

Christmas. Pa, will you let me?"

Mr. Carvel winced. He put an arm around her. He, thought of his lonely

widowerhood, of her whose place Virginia had taken.

"And what shall I do?" he said, trying to smile.

"It will only be for a little while. And Monticello isn't very far, Pa."

"Well, well, there is plenty of time to think it over between now and

January," he said. "And now I have a little favor to ask of you, honey."

"Yes?" she said.

The Colonel took the other armchair, stretched his feet toward the blaze,

and stroked his goatee. He glanced covertly at his daughter's profile.

Twice he cleared hip throat.

"Jinny?"

"Yes, Pa" (without turning her head).

"Jinny, I was going to speak of this young. Brice. He's a stranger here,

and he comes of a good family, and--and I like him."

"And you wish me to invite him to my party," finished Virginia.

The Colonel started. "I reckon you guessed it," he said.

Virginia remained immovable. She did not answer at once. Then she said:

"Do you think, in bidding against me, that he behaved, like a gentleman?"

The Colonel blundered.

"Lord, Virginia," he said, "I thought you told the judge this afternoon

teat it was done out of principle."

Virginia ignored this. But she bit her lip

"He is like all Yankees, without one bit of consideration for a woman. He

knew I wanted Hester."

"What makes you imagine that he thought of you at all, my dear?" asked

her father, mildly, "He does not know you."

This time the Colonel scored certainly. The firelight saved Virginia.

"He overheard our conversation," she answered.

"I reckon that he wasn't worrying much about us. And besides, he was

trying to save Hester from Jennings."

"I thought that you said that it was to be my party, Pa," said Virginia,

irrelevantly.

The Colonel looked thoughtful, then he began to laugh.

"Haven't we enough Black Republican friends?" she asked.

"So you won't have him?" said the Colonel.

"I didn't say that I wouldn't have him," she answered.

The Colonel rose, and brushed the ashes from his goat.

"By Gum!" he said. "Women beat me."

CHAPTER X

THE LITTLE HOUSE

When Stephen attempted to thank Judge Whipple for going on Hester's bond,

he merely said, "Tut, tut."

The Judge rose at six, so his man Shadrach told Stephen. He had his

breakfast at the Planters' House at seven, read the Missouri Democrat,

and returned by eight. Sometimes he would say good morning to Stephen and

Richter, and sometimes he would not. Mr. Whipple was out a great part of

the day, and he had many visitors. He was a very busy man. Like a great

specialist (which he was), he would see only one person at a time. And

Stephen soon discovered that his employer did not discriminate between

age or sex, or importance, or condition of servitude. In short, Stephen's

opinion of Judge Whipple altered very materially before the end of that

first week. He saw poor women and disconsolate men go into the private

room ahead of rich citizens, who seemed content to wait their turn on the

hard wooden chairs against the wall of the main office. There was one

incident in particular, when a well-dressed gentleman of middle age paced

impatiently for two mortal hours after Shadrach had taken his card into

the sanctum. When at last he had been admitted, Mr. Richter whispered to

Stephen his name. It was that of a big railroad man from the East. The

transom let out the true state of affairs.

"See here, Callender," the Judge was heard to say, "you fellows don't

like me, and you wouldn't come here unless you had to. But when your road

gets in a tight place, you turn up and expect to walk in ahead of my

friends. No, sir, if you want to see me, you've got to wait."

Mr. Callender made some inaudible reply, "Money!" roared the Judge, "take

your money to Stetson, and see if you win your case."

Mr. Richter smiled at Stephen, as if in sheer happiness at this

vindication of an employer who had never seemed to him to need a defence.

Stephen was greatly drawn toward this young German with the great scar on

his pleasant face. And he was itching to know about that scar. Every day,

after coming in from dinner, Richter lighted a great brown meerschaum,

and read the St. Louis 'Anzeiger' and the 'Westliche Post'. Often he sang

quietly to himself:

"Deutschlands Sohne

Laut ertone

Euer Vaterlandgesang.

Vaterland! Du Land des Ruhmes,

Weih' zu deines Heiligthumes

Hutern, uns and unser Schwert."

There were other songs, too. And some wonderful quality in the German's

voice gave you a thrill when you heard them, albeit you could not

understand the words. Richter never guessed how Stephen, with his eyes on

his book, used to drink in those airs. And presently he found out that

they were inspired.

The day that the railroad man called, and after he and the Judge had gone

out together, the ice was broken.

"You Americans from the North are a queer people, Mr. Brice," remarked

Mr. Richter, as he put on his coat. "You do not show your feelings. You

are ashamed. The Judge, at first I could not comprehend him--he would

scold and scold. But one day I see that his heart is warm, and since then

I love him. Have you ever eaten a German dinner, Mr. Brice? No? Then you

must come with me, now."

It was raining, the streets ankle-deep in mud, and the beer-garden by the

side of the restaurant to which they went was dreary and bedraggled. But

inside the place was warm and cheerful. Inside, to all intents and

purposes, it was Germany. A most genial host crossed the room to give Mr.

Richter a welcome that any man might have envied. He was introduced to

Stephen.

"We were all 'Streber' together, in Germany," said Richter.

"You were all what?" asked Stephen, interested.

"Strivers, you might call it in English. In the Vaterland those who seek

for higher and better things--for liberty, and to be rid of oppression

--are so called. That is why we fought in '48 and lost. And that is why we

came here, to the Republic. Ach! I fear I will never be the great lawyer

--but the striver, yes, always. We must fight once more to be rid of the

black monster that sucks the blood of freedom--vampire. Is it not so in

English?"

Stephen was astonished at this outburst.

"You think it will come to war?"

"I fear,--yes, I fear," said the German, shaking his head. "We fear. We

are already preparing."

"Preparing? You would fight, Richter? You, a foreigner?"

"A foreigner!" cried Richter, with a flash of anger in his blue eyes that

died as suddenly as it came,--died into reproach. "Call me not a

foreigner--we Germans will show whether or not we are foreigners when the

time is ripe. This great country belongs to all the oppressed. Your

ancestors founded it, and fought for it, that the descendants of mine

might find a haven from tyranny. My friend, one-half of this city is

German, and it is they who will save it if danger arises. You must come

with me one night to South St. Louis, that you may know us. Then you will

perhaps understand, Stephen. You will not think of us as foreign swill,

but as patriots who love our new Vaterland even as you love it. You must

come to our Turner Halls, where we are drilling against the time when the

Union shall have need of us."

"You are drilling now?" exclaimed Stephen, in still greater astonishment.

The German's eloquence had made him tingle, even as had the songs.

"Prosit deine Blume!" answered Richter, smiling and holding up his glass

of beer. "You will come to a 'commerce', and see.

"This is not our blessed Lichtenhainer, that we drink at Jena. One may

have a pint of Lichtenhainer for less than a groschen at Jena. Aber," he

added as he rose, with a laugh that showed his strong teeth, "we

Americans are rich."

As Stephen's admiration for his employer grew, his fear of him waxed

greater likewise. The Judge's methods of teaching law were certainly not

Harvard's methods. For a fortnight he paid as little attention to the

young man as he did to the messengers who came with notes and cooled

their heels in the outer office until it became the Judge's pleasure to

answer them. This was a trifle discouraging to Stephen. But he stuck to

his Chitty and his Greenleaf and his Kent. It was Richter who advised him

to buy Whittlesey's "Missouri Form Book," and warned him of Mr. Whipple's

hatred for the new code. Well that he did! There came a fearful hour of

judgment. With the swiftness of a hawk Mr. Whipple descended out of a

clear sky, and instantly the law terms began to rattle in Stephen's head

like dried peas in a can. It was the Old Style of Pleading this time,

without a knowledge of which the Judge declared with vehemence that a

lawyer was not fit to put pen to legal cap.

"Now, sir, the pleadings?" he cried.

"First," said Stephen, "was the Declaration. The answer to that was the

Plea. The answer to that was the Replication. Then came the Rejoinder,

then the Surrejoinder, then the Rebutter, then the Surrebutter. But they

rarely got that far," he added unwisely.

"A good principle in Law, sir," said the Judge, "is not to volunteer

information."

Stephen was somewhat cast down when he reached home that Saturday

evening. He had come out of his examination with feathers drooping. He

had been given no more briefs to copy, nor had Mr. Whipple vouchsafed

even to send him on an errand. He had not learned how common a thing it

is with young lawyers to feel that they are of no use in the world.

Besides, the rain continued. This was the fifth day.

His mother, knitting before the fire in her own room, greeted him with

her usual quiet smile of welcome. He tried to give her a humorous account

of his catechism of the morning, but failed.

"I am quite sure that he doesn't like me," said Stephen.

His mother continued to smile.

"If he did, he would not show it," she answered.

"I can feel it," said Stephen, dejectedly.

"The Judge was here this afternoon," said his mother.

"What?" cried Stephen. "Again this week? They say that he never calls in

the daytime, and rarely in the evening. What did he say?"

"He said that some of this Boston nonsense must be gotten out of you,"

answered Mrs. Brice, laughing. "He said that you were too stiff. That you

needed to rub against the plain men who were building up the West. Who

were making a vast world-power of the original little confederation of

thirteen states. And Stephen," she added more earnestly, "I am not sure

but what he is right."

Then Stephen laughed. And for a long time he sat staring into the fire.

"What else did he say?" he asked, after a while.

"He told me about a little house which we might rent very cheaply. Too

cheaply, it seems. The house is on this street, next door to Mr.

Brinsmade, to whom it belongs. And Mr. Whipple brought the key, that we

might inspect it to-morrow."

"But a servant," objected Stephen, "I suppose that we must have a

servant."

His mother's voice fell.

"That poor girl whom you freed is here to see me every day. Old Nancy

does washing. But Hester has no work and she is a burden to Judge

Whipple. Oh, no," she continued, in response to Stephen's glance, "the

Judge did not mention that, but I think he had it in mind that Nester

might come. And I am sure that she would."

Sunday dawned brightly. After church Mrs. Brice and Stephen walked down

Olive Street, and stood looking at a tiny house wedged in between, two

large ones with scrolled fronts. Sad memories of Beacon Street filled

them both as they gazed, but they said nothing of this to each other. As

Stephen put his hand on the latch of the little iron gate, a gentleman

came out of the larger house next door. He was past the middle age,

somewhat scrupulously dressed in the old fashion, in swallowtail coat and

black stock. Benevolence was in the generous mouth, in the large nose

that looked like Washington's, and benevolence fairly sparkled in the

blue eyes. He smiled at them as though he had known them always, and the

world seemed brighter that very instant. They smiled in return, whereupon

the gentleman lifted his hat. And the kindliness and the courtliness of

that bow made them very happy. "Did you wish to look at the house,

madam?" he asked "Yes, sir," said Mrs. Brice.

"Allow me to open it for you," he said, graciously taking the key from

her. "I fear that you will find it inconvenient and incommodious, ma'am.

I should be fortunate, indeed, to get a good tenant."

He fitted the key in the door, while Stephen and his mother smiled at

each other at the thought of the rent. The gentleman opened the door, and

stood aside to let them enter, very much as if he were showing them a

palace for which he was the humble agent.

They went into the little parlor, which was nicely furnished in mahogany

and horsehair. And it had back of it a bit of a dining room, with a

little porch overlooking the back yard. Mrs. Brice thought of the dark

and stately high-ceiled dining-room she had known throughout her married

days: of the board from which a royal governor of Massachusetts Colony

had eaten, and some governors of the Commonwealth since. Thank God, she

had not to sell that, nor the Brice silver which had stood on the high

sideboard with the wolves and the shield upon it. The widow's eyes filled

with tears. She had not hoped again to have a home for these things, nor

the father's armchair, nor the few family treasures that were to come

over the mountains.

The gentleman, with infinite tact, said little, but led the way through

the rooms. There were not many of them. At the door of the kitchen he

stopped, and laid his hand kindly on Stephen's shoulder:-- "Here we may

not enter. This is your department, ma'am," said he.

Finally, as they stood without waiting for the gentleman, who insisted

upon locking the door, they observed a girl in a ragged shawl hurrying up

the street. As she approached them, her eyes were fixed upon the large

house next door. But suddenly, as the gentleman turned, she caught sight

of him, and from her lips escaped a cry of relief. She flung open the

gate, and stood before him.

"Oh, Mr. Brinsmade," she cried, "mother is dying. You have done so much

for us, sir,--couldn't you come to her for a little while? She thought if

she might see you once more, she would die happy." The voice was choked

by a sob.

Mr. Brinsmade took the girl's hand in his own, and turned to the lady

with as little haste, with as much politeness, as he had shown before.

"You will excuse me, ma'am," he said, with his hat in his hand.

The widow had no words to answer him. But she and her son watched him as

he walked rapidly down the street, his arm in the girl's, until they were

out of sight. And then they walked home silently.

Might not the price of this little house be likewise a piece of the

Brinsmade charity?

CHAPTER XI

THE INVITATION

Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, in his Sunday-best broadcloth was a marvel of

propriety. It seemed to Stephen that his face wore a graver expression on

Sunday when he met him standing on Miss Crane's doorstep, picking the

lint from his coat. Stephen's intention was not to speak. But he

remembered what the Judge had said to his mother, and nodded. Why,

indeed, should he put on airs with this man who had come to St. Louis

unknown and unrecommended and poor, who by sheer industry had made

himself of importance in the large business of Carvel &, Company? As for

Stephen Brice, he was not yet earning his salt, but existing by the

charity of Judge Silas Whipple.

"Howdy, Mr. Brice," said Mr. Hopper, his glance caught by the indefinable

in Stephen's costume. This would have puzzled Mr. Hopper's tailor more.

"Very well, thanks."

"A fine day after the rain."

Stephen nodded, and Mr. Hopper entered the hours after him.

"Be you asked to Virginia Carvel's party?" he asked abruptly.

"I do not know Miss Carvel," said Stephen, wondering how well the other

did. And if the truth be told, he was a little annoyed at Mr. Hopper's

free use of her name.

"That shouldn't make no difference," said Eliphalet with just a shade of

bitterness in his tone. "They keep open house, like all Southerners," Mr.

Hopper hesitated,--"for such as come well recommended. I 'most forgot,"

said he. "I callate you're not any too well recommended. I 'most forgot

that little transaction down to the Court House. They do say that she

wanted that gal almighty bad,--she was most awful cut up not to get her.

Served her right, though. I'm glad you did. Show her she can't have

everything her own way. And say," he added, with laughter, "how you did

fix that there stuckup Colfax boy! He'll never forgive you no more than

she. But," said Mr. Hopper, meditatively, "it was a durned-fool trick."

I think Stephen's critics will admit that he had a good right to be

angry, and that they will admire him just a little bit because he kept

his temper. But Mr. Hopper evidently thought he had gone too far.

"She ain't got no use for me, neither," he said.

"She shows poor judgment," answered Stephen.

"She's not long sighted, that's sure," replied Eliphalet, with emphasis.

At dinner Stephen was tried still further. And it was then he made the

determination to write for the newspapers in order to pay the rent on Mr.

Brinsmade's house. Miss Carvel's coming-out party was the chief topic.

"They do say the Colonel is to spend a sight of money on that ball," said

Mrs. Abner Reed. "I guess it won't bankrupt him." And she looked hard at

Mr. Hopper.

"I callate he ain't pushed for money," that gentleman vouchsafed.

"He's a good man, and done well by you, Mr. Hopper."

"So--so," answered Eliphalet. "But I will say that I done something for

the Colonel. I've saved him a hundred times my pay since I showed old

Hood the leaks. And I got a thousand dollar order from Wright & Company

this week for him."

"I dare say you'd keep a tight hand enough on expenses," said Miss Crane,

half in sarcasm, half in approval.

"If Colonel Carvel was doin' business in New England," said Eliphalet,

"he'd been bankrupt long ago."

"That young Clarence Colfax," Mrs. Abner Reed broke in, "he'll get a

right smart mint o' money when he marries Virginia. They do say her

mother left her independent. How now, Mr. Hopper?"

Eliphalet looked mysterious and knowing. He did not reply.

"And young Colfax ain't precisely a pauper," said Miss Crane.

"I'll risk a good deal that she don't marry Colfax," said Mr. Hopper.

"What on earth do you mean?" cried Mrs. Abner. It ain't broke off?"

"No," he answered, "it ain't broke off. But I callate she won't have him

when the time comes. She's got too much sense."

Heavy at heart, Stephen climbed the stairs, thanking heaven that he had

not been drawn into the controversy. A partial comprehension of Mr.

Hopper was dawning upon him. He suspected that gentleman of an aggressive

determination to achieve wealth, and the power which comes with it, for

the purpose of using that power upon those beneath him. Nay, when he

thought over his conversation, he suspected him of more,--of the

intention to marry Virginia Carvel.

It will be seen whether Stephen was right or wrong.

He took a walk that afternoon, as far out as a place called Lindell's

Grove, which afterward became historic. And when he returned to the

house, his mother handed him a, little white envelope.

"It came while you were out," she said.

He turned it over, and stared at his name written across the front in a

feminine hand In those days young ladies did not write in the bold and

masculine manner now deemed proper. Stephen stared at the note, manlike,

and pondered.

"Who brought it, mother?"

"Why don't you open it, and see?" asked his mother with a smile.

He took the suggestion. What a funny formal little note we should think

it now! It was not funny to Stephen--then. He read it, and he read it

again, and finally he walked over to the window, still holding it in his

hand.

Some mothers would have shown their curiosity. Mrs. Brice did not,

wherein she proved herself their superiors in the knowledge of mankind.

Stephen stood for a long while looking out into the gathering dusk. Then

he went over to the fireplace and began tearing the note into little

bits. Only once did he pause, to look again at his name on the envelope.

"It is an invitation to Miss Carvel's party," he said.

By Thursday of that week the Brices, with thanksgiving in their hearts,

had taken possession of Mr. Brinsmade's little house.

CHAPTER XII

"MISS JINNY"

The years have sped indeed since that gray December when Miss Virginia

Carvel became eighteen. Old St. Louis has changed from a pleasant

Southern town to a bustling city, and a high building stands on the site

of that wide and hospitable home of Colonel Carvel. And the Colonel's

thoughts that morning, as Ned shaved him, flew back through the years to

a gently rolling Kentucky countryside, and a pillared white house among

the oaks. He was riding again with Beatrice Colfax in the springtime.

Again he stretched out his arm as if to seize her bridle-hand, and he

felt the thoroughbred rear. Then the vision faded, and the memory of his

dead wife became an angel's face, far--so far away.

He had brought her to St. Louis, and with his inheritance had founded his

business, and built the great double house on the corner. The child came,

and was named after the noble state which had given so many of her sons

to the service of the Republic.

Five simple, happy years--then war. A black war of conquest which, like

many such, was to add to the nation's fame and greatness: Glory beckoned,

honor called--or Comyn Carvel felt them. With nothing of the profession

of arms save that born in the Carvels, he kissed Beatrice farewell and

steamed down the Mississippi, a captain in Missouri regiment. The young

wife was ailing. Anguish killed her. Had Comyn Carvel been selfish?

Ned, as he shaved his master's face, read his thoughts by the strange

sympathy of love. He had heard the last pitiful words of his mistress.

Had listened, choking, to Dr. Posthlewaite as he read the sublime service

of the burial of the dead. It was Ned who had met his master, the

Colonel, at the levee, and had fallen sobbing at his feet.

Long after he was shaved that morning, the Colonel sat rapt in his chair,

while the faithful servant busied himself about the room, one eye on his

master the while. But presently Mr. Carvel's revery is broken by the

swift rustle of a dress, and a girlish figure flutters in and plants

itself on the wide arm of his mahogany barber chair, Mammy Easter in the

door behind her. And the Colonel, stretching forth his hands, strains her

to him, and then holds her away that he may look and look again into her

face.

"Honey," he said, "I was thinking of your mother."

Virginia raised her eyes to the painting on the wall over the marble

mantel. The face under the heavy coils of brown hair was sweet and

gentle, delicately feminine. It had an expression of sorrow that seemed a

prophecy.

The Colonel's hand strayed upward to Virginia's head.

"You are not like her, honey," he said: "You may see for yourself. You

are more like your Aunt Bess, who lived in Baltimore, and she--"

"I know," said Virginia, "she was the image of the beauty, Dorothy

Manners, who married my great-grandfather."

"Yes, Jinny," replied the Colonel, smiling. "That is so. You are somewhat

like your great-grandmother."

"Somewhat!" cried Virginia, putting her hand over his mouth, "I like

that. You and Captain Lige are always afraid of turning my head. I need

not be a beauty to resemble her. I know that I am like her. When you took

me on to Calvert House to see Uncle Daniel that time, I remember the

picture by, by--"

"Sir Joshua Reynolds."

"Yes, Sir Joshua."

"You were only eleven," says the Colonel.

"She is not a difficult person to remember."

"No," said Mr. Carvel, laughing, "especially if you have lived with her."

"Not that I wish to be that kind," said Virginia, meditatively,--"to take

London by storm, and keep a man dangling for years."

"But he got her in the end," said the Colonel. "Where did you hear all

this?" he asked.

"Uncle Daniel told me. He has Richard Carvel's diary."

"And a very honorable record it is," exclaimed the Colonel. "Jinny, we

shall read it together when we go a-visiting to Culvert House. I remember

the old gentleman as well as if I had seen him yesterday."

Virginia appeared thoughtful.

"Pa," she began, "Pa, did you ever see the pearls Dorothy Carvel wore on

her wedding day? What makes you jump like that? Did you ever see them?"

"Well, I reckon I did," replied the Colonel, gazing at her steadfastly.

"Pa, Uncle Daniel told me that I was to have that necklace when I was old

enough."

"Law!" said the Colonel, fidgeting, "your Uncle Daniel was just fooling

you."

"He's a bachelor," said Virginia; what use has he got for it?"

"Why," says the Colonel, "he's a young man yet, your uncle, only

fifty-three. I've known older fools than he to go and do it. Eh, Ned?"

"Yes, marsa. Yes, suh. I've seed 'em at seventy, an' shufflin' about

peart as Marse Clarence's gamecocks. Why, dar was old Marse Ludlow--"

"Now, Mister Johnson," Virginia put in severely, "no more about old

Ludlow."

Ned grinned from ear to ear, and in the ecstasy of his delight dropped

the Colonel's clothes-brush. "Lan' sakes!" he cried, "ef she ain't

recommembered." Recovering his gravity and the brush simultaneously, he

made Virginia a low bow. "Mornin', Miss Jinny. I sholy is gwinter s'lute

you dis day. May de good Lawd make you happy, Miss Jinny, an' give you a

good husban'--"

"Thank you, Mister Johnson, thank you," said Virginia, blushing.

"How come she recommembered, Marse Comyn? Dat's de quality. Dat's why.

Doan't you talk to Ned 'bout de quality, Marsa."

"And when did I ever talk to you about the quality, you scalawag?" asks

the Colonel, laughing.

"Th' ain't none 'cept de bes' quality keep they word dat-a-way," said

Ned, as he went off to tell Uncle Ben in the kitchen.

Was there ever, in all this wide country, a good cook who was not a

tyrant? Uncle Ben Carvel was a veritable emperor in his own domain; and

the Colonel himself, had he desired to enter the kitchen, would have been

obliged to come with humble and submissive spirit. As for Virginia, she

had had since childhood more than one passage at arms with Uncle Ben. And

the question of who had come off victorious had been the subject of many

a debate below stairs.

There were a few days in the year, however, when Uncle Ben permitted the

sanctity of his territory to be violated. One was the seventh of

December. On such a day it was his habit to retire to the broken chair

beside the sink (the chair to which he had clung for five-and-twenty

years). There he would sit, blinking, and carrying on the while an

undercurrent of protests and rumblings, while Miss Virginia and other

young ladies mixed and chopped and boiled and baked and gossiped. But woe

to the unfortunate Rosetta if she overstepped the bounds of respect! Woe

to Ned or Jackson or Tato, if they came an inch over the threshold from

the hall beyond! Even Aunt Easter stepped gingerly, though she was wont

to affirm, when assisting Miss Jinny in her toilet, an absolute contempt

for Ben's commands.

"So Ben ordered you out, Mammy?" Virginia would say mischievously.

"Order me out! Hugh! think I'se skeered o' him, honey? Reckon I'd frail

'em good ef he cotched hole of me with his black hands. Jes' let him try

to come upstairs once, honey, an' see what I say to 'm."

Nevertheless Ben had, on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, ordered

Mammy Easter out, and she had gone. And now, as she was working the beat

biscuits to be baked that evening, Uncle Ben's eye rested on her with

suspicion.

What mere man may write with any confidence of the delicacies which were

prepared in Uncle's kitchen that morning? No need in those days of

cooking schools. What Southern lady, to the manner born, is not a cook

from the cradle? Even Ben noted with approval Miss Virginia's scorn for

pecks and pints, and grunted with satisfaction over the accurate pinches

of spices and flavors which she used. And he did Miss Eugenie the honor

to eat one of her praleens.

That night came Captain Lige Brent, the figure of an eager and determined

man swinging up the street, and pulling out his watch under every

lamp-post. And in his haste, in the darkness of a midblock, he ran into

another solid body clad in high boots and an old army overcoat, beside a

wood wagon.

"Howdy, Captain," said he of the high boots.

"Well, I just thought as much," was the energetic reply; "minute I seen

the rig I knew Captain Grant was behind it."

He held out a big hand, which Captain Grant clasped, just looking at his

own with a smile. The stranger was Captain Elijah Brent of the

'Louisiana'.

"Now," said Brent, "I'll just bet a full cargo that you're off to the

Planters' House, and smoke an El Sol with the boys."

Mr. Grant nodded. "You're keen, Captain," said he.

"I've got something here that'll outlast an El Sol a whole day,"

continued Captain Breast, tugging at his pocket and pulling out a

six-inch cigar as black as the night. "Just you try that."

The Captain instantly struck a match on his boot and was puffing in a

silent enjoyment which delighted his friend.

"Reckon he don't bring out cigars when you make him a call," said the

steamboat captain, jerking his thumb up at the house. It was Mr. Jacob

Cluyme's.

Captain Grant did not reply to that, nor did Captain Lige expect him to,

as it was the custom of this strange and silent man to speak ill of no

one. He turned rather to put the stakes back into his wagon.

"Where are you off to, Lige?" he asked.

"Lord bless my soul," said Captain Lige, "to think that I could forget!"

He tucked a bundle tighter under his arm. "Grant, did you ever see my

little sweetheart, Jinny Carvel?" The Captain sighed. "She ain't little

any more, and she eighteen to-day."

Captain Grant clapped his hand to his forehead.

"Say, Lige," said he, "that reminds me. A month or so ago I pulled a

fellow out of Renault's area across from there. First I thought he was a

thief. After he got away I saw the Colonel and his daughter in the

window."

Instantly Captain Lige became excited, and seized Captain Grant by the

cape of his overcoat.

"Say, Grant, what kind of appearing fellow was he?"

"Short, thick-set, blocky face."

"I reckon I know," said Breast, bringing down his fist on the wagon

board; "I've had my eye on him for some little time."

He walked around the block twice after Captain Grant had driven down the

muddy street, before he composed himself to enter the Carvel mansion. He

paid no attention to the salutations of Jackson, the butler, who saw him

coming and opened the door, but climbed the stairs to the sitting-room.

"Why, Captain Lige, you must have put wings on the Louisiana," said

Virginia, rising joyfully from the arm of her father's chair to meet him.

"We had given you up."

"What?" cried the Captain. "Give me up? Don't you know better than that?

What, give me up when I never missed a birthday,--and this the best of

all of 'em.

"If your pa had got sight of me shovin' in wood and cussin' the pilot for

slowin' at the crossin's, he'd never let you ride in my boat again. Bill

Jenks said: 'Are you plum crazy, Brent? Look at them cressets.' 'Five

dollars'' says I; 'wouldn't go in for five hundred. To-morrow's Jinny

Carvel's birthday, and I've just got to be there.' I reckon the time's

come when I've got to say Miss Jinny," he added ruefully.

The Colonel rose, laughing, and hit the Captain on the back.

"Drat you, Lige, why don't you kiss the girl? Can't you see she's

waiting?"

The honest Captain stole one glance at Virginia, and turned red copper

color.

"Shucks, Colonel, I can't be kissing her always. What'll her husband

say?"

For an instant Mr. Carvel's brow clouded.

"We'll not talk of husbands yet awhile, Lige."

Virginia went up to Captain Lige, deftly twisted into shape his black

tie, and kissed him on the check. How his face burned when she touched

him.

"There!" said she, "and don't you ever dare to treat me as a young lady.

Why, Pa, he's blushing like a girl. I know. He's ashamed to kiss me now.

He's going to be married at last to that Creole girl in New Orleans."

The Colonel slapped his knee, winked slyly at Lige, while Virginia began

to sing:

"I built me a house on the mountain so high,

To gaze at my true love as she do go by."

"There's only one I'd ever marry, Jinny," protested the Captain, soberly,

"and I'm a heap too old for her. But I've seen a youngster that might

mate with her, Colonel," he added mischievously. "If he just wasn't a

Yankee. Jinny, what's the story I hear about Judge Whipple's young man

buying Hester?"

Mr. Carvel looked uneasy. It was Virginia's turn to blush, and she grew

red as a peony.

"He's a tall, hateful, Black Republican Yankee!" she said.

"Phee-ew!" whistled the Captain. "Any more epithets?"

"He's a nasty Abolitionist!"

"There you do him wrong, honey," the Colonel put in.

"I hear he took Hester to Miss Crane's," the Captain continued, filling

the room with his hearty laughter. "That boy has sand enough, Jinny; I'd

like to know him."

"You'll have that priceless opportunity to-night," retorted Miss

Virginia, as she flung herself out of the room. "Pa has made me invite

him to my party."

"Here, Jinny! Hold on!" cried the Captain, running after her. "I've got

something for you."

She stopped on the stairs, hesitating. Whereupon the Captain hastily

ripped open the bundle under his arm and produced a very handsome India

shawl. With a cry of delight Virginia threw it over her shoulders and ran

to the long glass between the high windows.

"Who spoils her, Lige?" asked the Colonel, fondly.

"Her father, I reckon," was the prompt reply.

"Who spoils you, Jinny?"

"Captain Lige," said she, turning to him. "If you had only kept the

presents you have brought me from New Orleans, you might sell out your

steamboat and be a rich man."

"He is a rich man," said the Colonel, promptly. "Did you ever miss

bringing her a present, Lige?" he asked.

"When the Cora Anderson burnt," answered the Captain.

"Why," cried Virginia, "you brought me a piece of her wheel, with the

char on it. You swam ashore with it."

"So I did," said Captain Brent. "I had forgotten that. It was when the

French dress, with the furbelows, which Madame Pitou had gotten me from

Paris for you, was lost."

"And I think I liked the piece of wheel better," says Virginia. "It was

brought me by a brave man, the last to leave his boat."

"And who should be the last to leave, but the captain? I saw the thing in

the water; and I just thought we ought to have a relic."

"Lige," said the Colonel, putting up his feet, "do you remember the

French toys you used to bring up here from New Orleans?"

"Colonel," replied Brent, "do you recall the rough and uncouth young

citizen who came over here from Cincinnati, as clerk on the Vicksburg?"

"I remember, sir, that he was so promising that they made him provisional

captain the next trip, and he was not yet twenty-four years of age."

"And do you remember buying the Vicksburg at the sheriff's sale for

twenty thousand dollars, and handing her over to young Brent, and saying,

'There, my son, she's your boat, and you can pay for her when you like'?"

"Shucks, Brent!" said Mr. Carvel, sternly, "your memory's too good. But I

proved myself a good business man, Jinny; he paid for her in a year."

"You don't mean that you made him pay you for the boat?" cried Jinny.

"Why, Pa, I didn't think you were that mean!"

The two men laughed heartily.

"I was a heap meaner," said her father. "I made him pay interest."

Virginia drew in her breath, and looked at the Colonel in amazement.

"He's the meanest man I know," said Captain Lige. "He made me pay

interest, and a mint julep."

"Upon my word, Pa," said Miss Virginia, soberly, "I shouldn't have

believed it of you."

Just then Jackson, in his white jacket; came to announce that supper was

ready, and they met Ned at the dining-room door, fairly staggering under a

load of roses.

"Marse Clarence done send 'em in, des picked out'n de hothouse dis

afternoon, Miss Jinny. Jackson, fotch a bowl!"

"No," said Virginia. She took the flowers from Ned, one by one, and to

the wonderment of Captain Lige and her--father strewed them hither and

thither upon the table until the white cloth was hid by the red flowers.

The Colonel stroked his goatee and nudged Captain Lige.

"Look-a-there, now," said he. "Any other woman would have spent two

mortal hours stickin' 'em in china."

Virginia, having critically surveyed her work, amid exclamations from Ned

and Jackson, had gone around to her place. And there upon her plate lay a

pearl necklace. For an instant she clapped her palms together, staring at

it in bewilderment. And once more the little childish cry of delight,

long sweet to the Colonel's ears, escaped her.

"Pa," she said, "is it--?" And there she stopped, for fear that it might

not be. But he nodded encouragingly.

"Dorothy Carvel's necklace! No, it can't be."

"Yes, honey," said the Colonel. "Your Uncle Daniel sent it, as he

promised. And when you go upstairs, if Easter has done as I told her, you

will see a primrose dress with blue coin-flowers on your bed. Daniel

thought you might like that, too, for a keepsake. Dorothy Manners wore it

in London, when she was a girl."

And so Virginia ran and threw her arms about her father's neck, and

kissed him again and again. And lest the Captain feel badly, she laid his

India shawl beside her; and the necklace upon it.

What a joyful supper they had,--just the three of them! And as the fresh

roses filled the room with fragrance, Virginia filled it with youth and

spirits, and Mr. Carvel and the Captain with honest, manly merriment. And

Jackson plied Captain Brent (who was a prime favorite in that house) with

broiled chicken and hot beat biscuits and with waffles, until at length

he lay back in his chair and heaved a sigh of content, lighting a cigar.

And then Virginia, with a little curtsey to both of them, ran off to

dress for the party.

"Well," said Captain Brent, "I reckon there'll be gay goings-on here

to-night. I wouldn't miss the sight of 'em, Colonel, for all the cargoes

on the Mississippi. Ain't there anything I can do?"

"No, thank you, Lige," Mr. Carvel answered. "Do you remember, one morning

some five years ago, when I took in at the store a Yankee named Hopper?

You didn't like him, I believe."

Captain Brent jumped, and the ashes of his cigar fell on his coat. He had

forgotten his conversation with Captain Grant.

"I reckon I do," he said dryly.

For a moment he was on the point of telling the affair. Then he desisted.

He could not be sure of Eliphalet from Grant's description. So he decided

to await a better time. Captain Brent was one to make sure of his channel

before going ahead.

"Well," continued the Colonel, "I have been rather pushed the last week,

and Hopper managed things for this dance. He got the music, and saw the

confectioner. But he made such a close bargain with both of 'em that they

came around to me afterward," he added, laughing.

"Is he coming here to-night?" demanded the Captain, looking disgusted.

"Lige," replied the Colonel, "you never do get over a prejudice. Yes,

he's coming, just to oversee things. He seems to have mighty little

pleasure, and he's got the best business head I ever did see. A Yankee,"

said Mr. Carvel, meditatively, as he put on his hat, "a Yankee, when he

will work, works like all possessed. Hood don't like him any more than

you do, but he allows Hopper is a natural-born business man. Last month

Samuels got tight, and Wright & Company were going to place the largest

order in years. I called in Hood. 'Go yourself, Colonel,' says he. I I'm

too old to solicit business, Hood,' said I. 'Then there's only one man to

send,' says he, 'young Hopper. He'll get the order, or I'll give up this

place I've had for twenty years.' Hopper 'callated' to get it, and

another small one pitched in. And you'd die laughing, Lige, to hear how

he did it."

"Some slickness, I'll gamble," grunted Captain Lige.

"Well, I reckon 'twas slick," said the Colonel, thoughtfully. "You know

old man Wright hates a solicitor like poison. He has his notions. And

maybe you've noticed signs stuck up all over his store, 'No Solicitors

nor Travelling Men Allowed Here'"

The Captain nodded.

"But Hopper--Hopper walks in, sir, bold as you please, right past the

signs till he comes to the old man's cage. 'I want to see Mr. Wright,'

says he to the clerk. And the clerk begins to grin. 'Name, please,' says

he. Mr. Hopper whips out his business card. 'What!' shouts old Wright,

flying 'round in his chair, 'what the devil does this mean? Can't you

read, sir?' 'callate to,' says Mr. Hopper. 'And you dare to come in here?

"'Business is business,' says Hopper. 'You "callate"!' bellowed the old

man; 'I reckon you're a damned Yankee. I reckon I'll upset your

"callations" for once. And if I catch you in here again, I'll wring your

neck like a roostah's. Git!'"

"Who told you this?" asked Captain Brent.

"Wright himself,--afterward," replied Mr. Carvel, laughing. "But listen,

Lige. The old man lives at the Planters' House, you know. What does Mr.

Hopper do but go 'round there that very night and give a nigger two bits

to put him at the old man's table. When Wright comes and sees him, he

nearly has one of his apoplectic fits. But in marches Hopper the next

morning with twice the order. The good Lord knows how he did it."

There was a silence. Then the door-bell rang.

"He's dangerous," said the Captain, emphatically. "That's what I call

him."

"The Yankees are changing business in this town," was the Colonel's

answer. "We've got to keep the pace, Lige."

CHAPTER XIII

THE PARTY

To gentle Miss Anne Brinsmade, to Puss Russell of the mischievous eyes,

and even to timid Eugenie Renault, the question that burned was: Would he

come, or would he not? And, secondarily, how would Virginia treat him if

he came? Put our friend Stephen for the subjective, and Miss Carvers

party for the objective in the above, and we have the clew. For very

young girls are given to making much out of a very little in such

matters. If Virginia had not gotten angry when she had been teased a

fortnight before, all would have been well.

Even Puss, who walked where angels feared to tread, did not dare to go

too far with Virginia. She had taken care before the day of the party to

beg forgiveness with considerable humility. It had been granted with a

queenly generosity. And after that none of the bevy had dared to broach

the subject to Virginia. Jack Brinsmade had. He told Puss afterward that

when Virginia got through with him, he felt as if he had taken a rapid

trip through the wheel-house of a large steamer. Puss tried, by various

ingenious devices, to learn whether Mr. Brice had accepted his

invitation. She failed.

These things added a zest to a party long looked forward to amongst

Virginia's intimates. In those days young ladies did not "come out" so

frankly as they do now. Mothers did not announce to the world that they

possessed marriageable daughters. The world was supposed to know that.

And then the matrimonial market was feverishly active. Young men proposed

as naturally as they now ask a young girl to go for a walk,--and were

refused quite as naturally. An offer of marriage was not the fearful and

wonderful thing--to be dealt with gingerly--which it has since become.

Seventeen was often the age at which they began. And one of the big

Catherwood boys had a habit of laying his heart and hand at Virginia's

feet once a month. Nor did his vanity suffer greatly when she laughed at

him.

It was with a flutter of excitement, therefore, that Miss Carvel's guests

flitted past Jackson, who held the door open obsequiously. The boldest of

them took a rapid survey of the big parlor, before they put foot on the

stairs to see whether Mr. Brice had yet arrived. And if their curiosity

held them too long, they were usually kissed by the Colonel.

Mr. Carvel shook hands heartily with the young mean and called them by

their first names, for he knew most of their fathers and grandfathers.

And if an older gentleman arrived, perhaps the two might be seen going

down the hall together, arm in arm. So came his beloved enemy, Judge

Whipple, who did not make an excursion to the rear regions of the house

with the Colonel; but they stood and discussed Mr. President Buchanan's

responsibility for the recent panic, until the band, which Mr. Hopper had

stationed under the stairs, drowned their voices.

As we enter the room, there stands Virginia under the rainbowed prisms of

the great chandelier, receiving. But here was suddenly a woman of

twenty-eight, where only this evening we knew a slip of a girl. It was a

trick she had, to become majestic in a ball-gown. She held her head high,

as a woman should, and at her slender throat glowed the pearls of Dorothy

Manners.

The result of all this was to strike a little awe into the souls of many

of her playmates. Little Eugenie nearly dropped a curtsey. Belle Cluyme

was so impressed that she forgot for a whole hour to be spiteful. But

Puss Russell kissed her on both cheeks, and asked her if she really

wasn't nervous.

"Nervous!" exclaimed Jinny, "why?"

Miss Russell glanced significantly towards the doorway. But she said

nothing to her hostess, for fear of marring an otherwise happy occasion.

She retired with Jack Brim made to a corner, where she recited:--

"Oh young Lochinvar is come out of the East;

Of millions of Yankees I love him the least."

"What a joke if he should come!" cried Jack.

Miss Russell gasped.

Just as Mr. Clarence Colfax, resplendent in new evening clothes just

arrived from New York, was pressing his claim for the first dance with

his cousin in opposition to numerous other claims, the chatter of the

guests died away. Virginia turned her head, and for an instant the pearls

trembled on her neck. There was a young man cordially and unconcernedly

shaking hands with her father and Captain Lige. Her memory of that moment

is, strangely, not of his face (she did not deign to look at that), but

of the muscle of his shoulder half revealed as he stretched forth his

arm.

Young Mr. Colfax bent over to her ear.

"Virginia," he whispered earnestly, almost fiercely, Virginia, who

invited him here?"

"I did," said Virginia, calmly, "of course. Who invites any one here?"

"But!" cried Clarence, "do you know who he is?"

"Yes," she answered, "I know. And is that any reason why he should not

come here as a guest? Would you bar any gentleman from your house on

account of his convictions?"

Ah, Virginia, who had thought to hear that argument from your lips? What

would frank Captain Lige say of the consistency of women, if he heard you

now? And how give an account of yourself to Anne Brinsmade? What

contrariness has set you so intense against your own argument?

Before one can answer this, before Mr. Clarence can recover from his

astonishment and remind her of her vehement words on the subject at

Bellegarde, Mr. Stephen is making thither with the air of one who

conquers. Again the natural contrariness of women. What bare-faced

impudence! Has he no shame that he should hold his head so high? She

feels her color mounting, even as her resentment rises at his

self-possession, and yet she would have despised him had he shown

self-consciousness in gait or manner in the sight of her assembled

guests. Nearly as tall as the Colonel himself, he is plainly seen, and

Miss Puss in her corner does not have to stand on tiptoe. Mr. Carvel does

the honors of the introduction.

But a daughter of the Carvels was not to fail before such a paltry

situation as this. Shall it be confessed that curiosity stepped into the

breach? As she gave him her hand she was wondering how he would act.

As a matter of fact he acted detestably. He said nothing whatever, but

stood regarding her with a clear eye and a face by far too severe. The

thought that he was meditating on the incident of the auction sale

crossed through her mind, and made her blood simmer. How dared he behave

so! The occasion called for a little small talk. An evil spirit took

possession of Virginia. She turned.

"Mr. Brice, do you know my cousin, Mr. Colfax?" she said.

Mr. Brice bowed. "I know Mr. Colfax by sight," he replied.

Then Mr. Colfax made a stiff bow. To this new phase his sense of humor

did not rise. Mr. Brice was a Yankee and no gentleman, inasmuch as he had

overbid a lady for Hester.

"Have you come here to live, Mr. Brice?" he asked.

The Colonel eyed his nephew sharply. But Stephen smiled.

"Yes," he said, "if I can presently make enough to keep me alive." Then

turning to Virginia, he said, "Will you dance, Miss Carvel?"

The effrontery of this demand quite drew the breath from the impatient

young gentlemen who had been waiting their turn. Several of them spoke up

in remonstrance. And for the moment (let one confess it who knows),

Virginia was almost tempted to lay her arm in his. Then she made a bow

that would have been quite as effective the length of the room.

"Thank you, Mr. Brice," she said, "but I am engaged to Mr. Colfax."

Abstractedly he watched her glide away in her cousin's arms. Stephen had

a way of being preoccupied at such times. When he grew older he would

walk the length of Olive Street, look into face after face of

acquaintances, not a quiver of recognition in his eyes. But most probably

the next week he would win a brilliant case in the Supreme Court. And so

now, indifferent to the amusement of some about him, he stood staring

after Virginia and Clarence. Where had he seen Colfax's face before he

came West? Ah, he knew. Many, many years before he had stood with his

father in the mellow light of the long gallery at Hollingdean, Kent,

before a portrait of the Stuarts' time. The face was that of one of Lord

Northwell's ancestors, a sporting nobleman of the time of the second

Charles. It was a head which compelled one to pause before it. Strangely

enough,--it was the head likewise of Clarence Colfax.

The image of it Stephen had carried undimmed in the eye of his memory.

White-haired Northwell's story, also. It was not a story that Mr. Brice

had expected his small son to grasp. As a matter of fact Stephen had not

grasped it then--but years afterward. It was not a pleasant story,--and

yet there was much of credit in it to the young rake its subject,--of

dash and courage and princely generosity beside the profligacy and

incontinence.

The face had impressed him, with its story. He had often dreamed of it,

and of the lace collar over the dull-gold velvet that became it so well.

And here it was at last, in a city west of the Mississippi River. Here

were the same delicately chiselled features, with their pallor, and

satiety engraved there at one and twenty. Here was the same lazy scorn in

the eyes, and the look which sleeplessness gives to the lids: the hair,

straight and fine and black; the wilful indulgence--not of one life, but

of generations--about the mouth; the pointed chin. And yet it was a fact

to dare anything, and to do anything.

One thing more ere we have done with that which no man may explain. Had

he dreamed, too, of the girl? Of Virginia? Stephen might not tell, but

thrice had the Colonel spoken to him before he answered.

"You must meet some of these young ladies, sir."

It was little wonder that Puss Russell thought him dull on that first

occasion. Out of whom condescension is to flow is a matter of which

Heaven takes no cognizance. To use her own words, Puss thought him "stuck

up," when he should have been grateful. We know that Stephen was not

stuck up, and later Miss Russell learned that likewise. Very naturally

she took preoccupation for indifference. It is a matter worth recording,

however, that she did not tease him, because she did not dare. He did not

ask her to dance, which was rude. So she passed him back to Mr. Carvel,

who introduced him to Miss Renault and Miss Saint Cyr, and other young

ladies of the best French families. And finally, drifting hither and

thither with his eyes on Virginia, in an evil moment he was presented to

Mrs. Colfax. Perhaps it has been guessed that Mrs. Colfax was a very

great lady indeed, albeit the daughter of an overseer. She bore Addison

Colfax's name, spent his fortune, and retained her good looks. On this

particular occasion she was enjoying herself quite as much as any young

girl in the room, and, while resting from a waltz, was regaling a number

of gentlemen with a humorous account of a scandal at the Virginia

Spring's.

None but a great lady could have meted out the punishment administered to

poor Stephen. None but a great lady could have concerned it. And he, who

had never been snubbed before, fell headlong into her trap. How was the

boy to know that there was no heart in the smile with which she greeted

him? It was all over in an instant. She continued to talk about Virginia

Springs, "Oh, Mr. Brice, of course you have been there. Of course you

know the Edmunds. No? You haven't been there? You don't know the Edmunds?

I thought every body had been there. Charles, you look as if you were

just dying to waltz. Let's have a turn before the music stops."

And so she whirled away, leaving Stephen forlorn, a little too angry to

be amused just then. In that state he spied a gentleman coming towards

him--a gentleman the sight of whom he soon came to associate with all

that is good and kindly in this world, Mr. Brinsmade. And now he put his

hand on Stephen's shoulder. Whether he had seen the incident just past,

who can tell?

"My son," said he, "I am delighted to see you here. Now that we are such

near neighbors, we must be nearer friends. You must know my wife, and my

son Jack, and my daughter Anne."

Mrs. Brinsmade was a pleasant little body, but plainly not a fit mate for

her husband. Jack gave Stephen a warm grasp of the hand, and an amused

look. As for Anne, she was more like her father; she was Stephen's friend

from that hour.

"I have seen you quite often, going in at your gate, Mr. Brice. And I

have seen your mother, too. I like her," said Anne. "She has such a

wonderful face." And the girl raised her truthful blue eyes to his.

"My mother would be delighted to know you," he ventured, not knowing what

else to say. It was an effort for him to reflect upon their new situation

as poor tenants to a wealthy family.

"Oh, do you think so?" cried Anne. "I shall call on her to-morrow, with

mother. Do you know, Mr. Brice," she continued, "do you know that your

mother is just the person I should go to if I were in trouble, whether I

knew her or not?"

"I have found her a good person in trouble," said Stephen, simply. He

might have said the same of Anne.

Anne was enchanted. She had thought him cold, but these words belied

that. She had wrapped him in that diaphanous substance with which young

ladies (and sometimes older ones) are wont to deck their heroes. She had

approached a mystery--to find it human, as are many mysteries. But thank

heaven that she found a dignity, a seriousness,--and these more than

satisfied her. Likewise, she discovered something she had not looked for,

an occasional way of saying things that made her laugh. She danced with

him, and passed him back to Miss Puss Russell, who was better pleased

this time; she passed him on to her sister, who also danced with him, and

sent him upstairs for her handkerchief.

Nevertheless, Stephen was troubled. As the evening wore on, he was more

and more aware of an uncompromising attitude in his young hostess, whom

he had seen whispering to various young ladies from behind her fan as

they passed her. He had not felt equal to asking her to dance a second

time. Honest Captain Lige Breast, who seemed to have taken a fancy to

him, bandied him on his lack of courage with humor that was a little

rough. And, to Stephen's amazement, even Judge Whipple had pricked him

on.

It was on his way upstairs after Emily Russell's handkerchief that he ran

across another acquaintance. Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, in Sunday broadcloth,

was seated on the landing, his head lowered to the level of the top of

the high door of the parlor. Stephen caught a glimpse of the picture

whereon his eyes were fixed. Perhaps it is needless to add that Miss

Virginia Carvel formed the central figure of it.

"Enjoy in' yourself?" asked Mr. Hopper.

Stephen countered.

"Are you?" he asked.

"So so," said Mr. Hopper, and added darkly: "I ain't in no hurry. Just

now they callate I'm about good enough to manage the business end of an

affair like this here. I guess I can wait. But some day," said he,

suddenly barring Stephen's way, "some day I'll give a party. And hark to

me when I tell you that these here aristocrats 'll be glad enough to get

invitations."

Stephen pushed past coldly. This time the man made him shiver. The

incident was all that was needed to dishearten and disgust him. Kindly as

he had been treated by others, far back in his soul was a thing that

rankled. Shall it be told crudely why he went that night? Stephen Brice,

who would not lie to others, lied to himself. And when he came downstairs

again and presented Miss Emily with her handkerchief, his next move was

in his mind. And that was to say good-night to the Colonel, and more

frigidly to Miss Carvel herself. But music has upset many a man's

calculations.

The strains of the Jenny Lind waltz were beginning to float through the

rooms. There was Miss Virginia in a corner of the big parlor, for the

moment alone with her cousin. And thither Stephen sternly strode. Not a

sign did she give of being aware of his presence until he stood before

her. Even then she did not lift her eyes. But she said: "So you have come

at last to try again, Mr. Brice?"

And Mr. Brice said: "If you will do me the honor, Miss Carvel."

She did not reply at once. Clarence Colfax got to his feet. Then she

looked up at the two men as they stood side by side, and perhaps swept

them both in an instant's comparison.

The New Englander's face must have reminded her more of her own father,

Colonel Carvel. It possessed, from generations known, the power to

control itself. She afterwards admitted that she accepted him to tease

Clarence. Miss Russell, whose intuitions are usually correct, does not

believe this.

"I will dance with you," said Virginia.

But, once in his arms, she seemed like a wild thing, resisting. Although

her gown brushed his coat, the space between them was infinite, and her

hand lay limp in his, unresponsive of his own pressure. Not so her feet;

they caught the step and moved with the rhythm of the music, and round

the room they swung. More than one pair paused in the dance to watch

them. Then, as they glided past the door, Stephen was disagreeably

conscious of some one gazing down from above, and he recalled Eliphalet

Hopper and his position. The sneer from Eliphalet's seemed to penetrate

like a chilly draught.

All at once, Virginia felt her partner gathering up his strength, and by

some compelling force, more of wild than of muscle, draw her nearer.

Unwillingly her hand tightened under his, and her blood beat faster and

her color came and went as they two moved as one. Anger--helpless anger

--took possession of her as she saw the smiles on the faces of her

friends, and Puss Russell mockingly throwing a kiss as she passed her.

And then, strange in the telling, a thrill as of power rose within her

which she strove against in vain. A knowledge of him who guided her so

swiftly, so unerringly, which she had felt with no other man. Faster and

faster they stepped, each forgetful of self and place, until the waltz

came suddenly to a stop.

"By gum!" said Captain Lige to Judge Whipple, "you can whollop me on my

own forecastle if they ain't the handsomest couple I ever did see."

THE CRISIS

By Winston Churchill

BOOK II.

Volume 3.

CHAPTER I

RAW MATERIAL

Summer, intolerable summer, was upon the city at last. The families of

its richest citizens had fled. Even at that early day some braved the

long railroad journey to the Atlantic coast. Amongst these were our

friends the Cluymes, who come not strongly into this history. Some went

to the Virginia Springs. But many, like the Brinsmades and the Russells,

the Tiptons and the Hollingsworths, retired to the local paradise of

their country places on the Bellefontaine road, on the cool heights above

the river. Thither, as a respite from the hot office, Stephen was often

invited by kind Mr. Brinsmade, who sometimes drove him out in his own

buggy. Likewise he had visited Miss Puss Russell. But Miss Virginia

Carvel he had never seen since the night he had danced with her. This was

because, after her return from the young ladies' school at Monticello,

she had gone to Glencoe, Glencoe, magic spot, perched high on wooded

highlands. And under these the Meramec, crystal pure, ran lightly on sand

and pebble to her bridal with that turbid tyrant, the Father of Waters.

To reach Glencoe you spent two dirty hours on that railroad which (it was

fondly hoped) would one day stretch to the Pacific Ocean. You generally

spied one of the big Catherwood boys in the train, or their tall sister

Maude. The Catherwoods likewise lived at Glencoe in the summer. And on

some Saturday afternoons a grim figure in a linen duster and a silk

skull-cap took a seat in the forward car. That was Judge Whipple, on his

way to spend a quiet Sunday with Colonel Carvel.

To the surprise of many good people, the Judge had recently formed

another habit. At least once a week he would drop in at the little house

on Olive Street next to Mr. Brinsmade's big one, which was shut up, and

take tea with Mrs. Brice. Afterward he would sit on the little porch over

the garden in the rear, or on the front steps, and watch the bob-tailed

horse-cars go by. His conversation was chiefly addressed to the widow.

Rarely to Stephen; whose wholesome respect for his employer had in no

wise abated.

Through the stifling heat of these summer days Stephen sat in the outer

office, straining at the law. Had it not been for the fact that Mr.

Whipple went to his mother's house, despair would have seized him long

since. Apparently his goings-out and his comings-in were noted only by

Mr. Richter. Truly the Judge's methods were not Harvard methods. And if

there were pride in the young Bostonian, Mr. Whipple thought he knew the

cure for it.

It was to Richter Stephen owed a debt of gratitude in these days. He

would often take his midday meal in the down-town beer garden with the

quiet German. Then there came a Sunday afternoon (to be marked with a red

letter) when Richter transported him into Germany itself. Stephen's eyes

were opened. Richter took him across the Rhine. The Rhine was Market

Street, and south of that street was a country of which polite American

society took no cognizance.

Here was an epic movement indeed, for South St. Louis was a great sod

uprooted from the Fatherland and set down in all its vigorous crudity in

the warm black mud of the Mississippi Valley. Here lager beer took the

place of Bourbon, and black bread and sausages of hot rolls and fried

chicken. Here were quaint market houses squatting in the middle of wide

streets; Lutheran churches, square and uncompromising, and bulky Turner

Halls, where German children were taught the German tongue. Here, in a

shady grove of mulberry and locust, two hundred families were spread out

at their ease.

For a while Richter sat in silence, puffing at a meerschaum with a huge

brown bowl. A trick of the mind opened for Stephen one of the histories

in his father's library in Beacon Street, across the pages of which had

flitted the ancestors of this blue-eyed and great-chested Saxon. He saw

them in cathedral forests, with the red hair long upon their bodies. He

saw terrifying battles with the Roman Empire surging back and forth

through the low countries. He saw a lad of twenty at the head of rugged

legions clad in wild skins, sweeping Rome out of Gaul. Back in the dim

ages Richter's fathers must have defended grim Eresburg. And it seemed to

him that in the end the new Republic must profit by this rugged stock,

which had good women for wives and mothers, and for fathers men in whose

blood dwelt a fierce patriotism and contempt for cowardice.

This fancy of ancestry pleased Stephen. He thought of the forefathers of

those whom he knew, who dwelt north of Market Street. Many, though this

generation of the French might know it not, had bled at Calais and at

Agincourt, had followed the court of France in clumsy coaches to Blois

and Amboise, or lived in hovels under the castle walls. Others had

charged after the Black Prince at Poitiers, and fought as serf or noble.

in the war of the Roses; had been hatters or tailors in Cromwell's

armies, or else had sacrificed lands and fortunes for Charles Stuart.

These English had toiled, slow but resistless, over the misty Blue Ridge

after Boone and Harrod to this old St. Louis of the French, their

enemies, whose fur traders and missionaries had long followed the veins

of the vast western wilderness. And now, on to the structure builded by

these two, comes Germany to be welded, to strengthen or to weaken.

Richter put down his pipe on the table.

"Stephen," he said suddenly, "you do not share the prejudice against us

here?"

Stephen flushed. He thought of some vigorous words that Miss Puss Russell

had used on the subject of the Dutch."

"No," said he, emphatically.

"I am glad," answered Richter, with a note of sadness, in his voice. "Do

not despise us before you know more of us. We are still feudal in

Germany--of the Middle Ages. The peasant is a serf. He is compelled to

serve the lord of the land every year with so much labor of his hands.

The small farmers, the 'Gross' and 'Mittel Bauern', we call them, are

also mortgaged to the nobles who tyrannize our Vaterland. Our merchants

are little merchants--shopkeepers, you would say. My poor father, an

educated man, was such. They fought our revolution."

"And now," said Stephen, "why do they not keep their hold?"

Richter sighed.

"We were unused to ruling," he answered. "We knew not how to act--what to

do. You must remember that we were not trained to govern ourselves, as

are you of the English race, from children. Those who have been for

centuries ground under heel do not make practical parliamentarians. No;

your heritage is liberty--you Americans and English; and we Germans must

desert our native land to partake of it."

"And was it not hard to leave?" asked Stephen, gently.

The eyes of the German filled at the recollection, nor did he seem

ashamed of his tears.

"I had a poor old father whose life was broken to save the Vaterland, but

not his spirit," he cried, "no, not that. My father was born in 1797. God

directed my grandfather to send him to the Kolnisches gymnasium, where

the great Jahn taught. Jahn was our Washington, the father of Germany

that is to be.

"Then our Fatherland was French. Our women wore Parisian clothes, and

spoke the language; French immorality and atheism had spread like a

plague among us Napoleon the vile had taken the sword of our Frederick

from Berlin. It was Father Jahn (so we love to call him), it was Father

Jahn who founded the 'Turnschulen', that the generations to come might

return to simple German ways,--plain fare, high principles, our native

tongue; and the development of the body. The downfall of the fiend

Napoleon and the Vaterland united--these two his scholars must have

written in their hearts. All summer long, in their black caps and linen

pantaloons, they would trudge after him, begging a crust here and a

cheese there, to spread his teachings far and wide under the thatched

roofs.

"Then came 1811. I have heard my father tell how in the heat of that year

a great red comet burned in the sky, even as that we now see, my friend.

God forbid that this portends blood. But in the coming spring the French

conscripts filled our sacred land like a swarm of locusts, devouring as

they went. And at their head, with the pomp of Darius, rode that

destroyer of nations and homes, Napoleon. What was Germany then? Ashes.

But the red embers were beneath, fanned by Father Jahn. Napoleon at

Dresden made our princes weep. Never, even in the days of the Frankish

kings, had we been so humbled. He dragged our young men with him to

Russia, and left them to die moaning on the frozen wastes, while he drove

off in his sledge.

"It was the next year that Germany rose. High and low, rich and poor,

Jaeger and Landwehr, came flocking into the army, and even the old men,

the Landsturm. Russia was an ally, and later, Austria. My father, a last

of sixteen, was in the Landwehr, under the noble Blucher in Silesia, when

they drove the French into the Katzbach and the Neisse, swollen by the

rains into torrents. It had rained until the forests were marshes. Powder

would not burn. But Blucher, ah, there was a man! He whipped his great

sabre from under his cloak, crying 'Vorwarts! Vorwarts!' And the Landwehr

with one great shout slew their enemies with the butts of their muskets

until their arms were weary and the bodies were tossed like logs in the

foaming waters. They called Blucher Marachall Vorwarts!

"Then Napoleon was sent to Elba. But the victors quarrelled amongst

themselves, while Talleyrand and Metternich tore our Vaterland into

strips, and set brother against brother. And our blood, and the grief for

the widows and the fatherless, went for nothing."

Richter paused to light his pipe.

"After a while," he continued presently, "came the German Confederation,

with Austria at the head. Rid of Napoleon, we had another despot in

Metternich. But the tree which Jahn had planted grew, and its branches

spread. The great master was surrounded by spies. My father had gone to

Jena University, when he joined the Burschenschaft, or Students' League,

of which I will tell you later. It was pledged to the rescue of the

Vaterland. He was sent to prison for dipping his handkerchief in the

blood of Sand, beheaded for liberty at Mannheim. Afterwards he was

liberated, and went to Berlin and married my mother, who died when I was

young. Twice again he was in prison because the societies met at his

house. We were very poor, my friend. You in America know not the meaning

of that word. His health broke, and when '48 came, he was an old man. His

hair was white, and he walked the streets with a crutch. But he had saved

a little money to send me to Jena.

"He was proud of me. I was big-boned and fair, like my mother. And when I

came home at the end of a Semester I can see him now, as he would hobble

to the door, wearing the red and black and gold of the Burschenschaft.

And he would keep me up half the night-telling him of our 'Schlager'

fights with the aristocrats. My father had been a noted swordsman in his

day."

He stopped abruptly, and colored. For Stephen was staring at the jagged

scar, He had never summoned the courage to ask Richter how he came by it.

"Schlager fights?" he exclaimed.

"Broadswords," answered the German, hastily. "Some day I will tell you of

them, and of the struggle with the troops in the 'Breite Strasse' in

March. We lost, as I told you because we knew not how to hold what we had

gained.

"I left Germany, hoping to make a home here for my poor father. How sad

his face as he kissed me farewell! And he said to me: 'Carl, if ever your

new Vaterland, the good Republic, be in danger, sacrifice all. I have

spent my years in bondage, and I say to you that life without liberty is

not worth the living.' Three months I was gone, and he was dead, without

that for which he had striven so bravely. He never knew what it is to

have an abundance of meat. He never knew from one day to the other when

he would have to embrace me, all he owned, and march away to prison,

because he was a patriot." Richter's voice had fallen low, but now he

raised it. "Do you think, my friend," he cried, "do you think that I

would not die willingly for this new country if the time should come.

Yes, and there are a million like me, once German, now American, who will

give their lives to preserve this Union. For without it the world is not

fit to live in."

Stephen had food for thought as he walked northward through the strange

streets on that summer evening. Here indeed was a force not to be

reckoned, and which few had taken into account.

CHAPTER II

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

It is sometimes instructive to look back and see hour Destiny gave us a

kick here, and Fate a shove there, that sent us in the right direction at

the proper time. And when Stephen Brice looks backward now, he laughs to

think that he did not suspect the Judge of being an ally of the two who

are mentioned above. The sum total of Mr. Whipple's words and advices to

him that summer had been these. Stephen was dressed more carefully than

usual, in view of a visit to Bellefontaine Road. Whereupon the Judge

demanded whether he were contemplating marriage. Without waiting for a

reply he pointed to a rope and a slab of limestone on the pavement below,

and waved his hand unmistakably toward the Mississippi.

Miss Russell was of the opinion that Mr. Whipple had once been crossed in

love.

But we are to speak more particularly of a put-up job, although Stephen

did not know this at the time.

Towards five o'clock of a certain afternoon in August of that year, 1858,

Mr. Whipple emerged from his den. Instead of turning to the right, he

strode straight to Stephen's table. His communications were always a

trifle startling. This was no exception.

"Mr. Brice," said he, "you are to take the six forty-five train on the

St. Louis, Alton, and Chicago road tomorrow morning for Springfield,

Illinois."

"Yes sir."

"Arriving at Springfield, you are to deliver this envelope into the hands

of Mr. Abraham Lincoln, of the law firm of Lincoln & Herndon."

"Abraham Lincoln!" cried Stephen, rising and straddling his chair. "But,

sir--"

"Abraham Lincoln," interrupted the Judge, forcibly "I try to speak

plainly, sir. You are to deliver it into Mr. Lincoln's hands. If he is

not in Springfield, find out where he is and follow him up. Your expenses

will be paid by me. The papers are important. Do you understand, sir?"

Stephen did. And he knew better than to argue the matter with Mr.

Whipple. He had read in the Missouri Democrat of this man Lincoln, a

country lawyer who had once been to Congress, and who was even now

disputing the senatorship of his state with the renowned Douglas. In

spite of their complacent amusement, he had won a little admiration from

conservative citizens who did not believe in the efficacy of Judge

Douglas's Squatter Sovereignty. Likewise this Mr. Lincoln, who had once

been a rail-sputter, was uproariously derided by Northern Democrats

because he had challenged Mr. Douglas to seven debates, to be held at

different towns in the state of Illinois. David with his sling and his

smooth round pebble must have had much of the same sympathy and ridicule.

For Mr. Douglas, Senator and Judge, was a national character, mighty in

politics, invulnerable in the armor of his oratory. And he was known far

and wide as the Little Giant. Those whom he did not conquer with his

logic were impressed by his person.

Stephen remembered with a thrill that these debates were going on now.

One, indeed, had been held, and had appeared in fine print in a corner of

the Democrat. Perhaps this Lincoln might not be in; Springfield; perhaps

he, Stephen Brice, might, by chance, hit upon a debate, and see and hear

the tower of the Democracy, the Honorable Stephen A. Douglas.

But it is greatly to be feared that our friend Stephen was bored with his

errand before he arrived at the little wooden station of the Illinois

capital. Standing on the platform after the train pulled out, he summoned

up courage to ask a citizen with no mustache and a beard, which he swept

away when he spat, where was the office of Lincoln & Herndon. The

stranger spat twice, regarded Mr. Brice pityingly, and finally led him in

silence past the picket fence and the New England-looking meeting-house

opposite until they came to the great square on which the State House

squatted. The State House was a building with much pretension to beauty,

built in the classical style, of a yellow stone, with sold white blinds

in the high windows and mighty columns capped at the gently slanting

roof. But on top of it was reared a crude wooden dome, like a clay head

on a marble statue.

"That there," said the stranger, "is whar we watches for the County

Delegations when they come in to a meetin'." And with this remark,

pointing with a stubby thumb up a well-worn stair, he departed before

Stephen could thank him. Stephen paused under the awning, of which there

were many shading the brick pavement, to regard the straggling line of

stores and houses which surrounded and did homage to the yellow pile. The

brick house in which Mr. Lincoln's office was had decorations above the

windows. Mounting the stair, Stephen found a room bare enough, save for a

few chairs and law books, and not a soul in attendance. After sitting

awhile by the window, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, he went out

on the landing to make inquiries. There he met another citizen in shirt

sleeves, like unto the first, in the very act of sweeping his beard out

of the way of a dexterous expectoration.

"Wal, young man," said he, "who be you lookin' for here?"

"For Mr. Lincoln," said Stephen.

At this the gentleman sat down on the dirty top step; and gave vent to

quiet but annoying laughter.

"I reckon you come to the wrong place."

"I was told this was his office," said Stephen, with some heat.

"Whar be you from?" said the citizen, with interest.

"I don't see what that has to do with it," answered our friend.

"Wal," said the citizen, critically, "if you was from Philadelphy or

Boston, you might stand acquitted."

Stephen was on the point of claiming Boston, but wisely hesitated.

"I'm from St. Louis, with a message for Mr. Lincoln," he replied.

"Ye talk like y e was from down East," said the citizens who seemed in

the humor for conversation. "I reckon old Abe's' too busy to see you.

Say, young man, did you ever hear of Stephen Arnold Douglas, alias the

Little Giant, alias the Idol of our State, sir?"

This was too much for Stephen, who left the citizen without the

compliment of a farewell. Continuing around the square, inquiring for Mr.

Lincoln's house, he presently got beyond the stores and burning pavements

on to a plank walk, under great shade trees, and past old brick mansions

set well back from the street. At length he paused in front of a wooden

house of a dirty grayish brown, too high for its length and breadth, with

tall shutters of the same color, and a picket fence on top of the

retaining wall which lifted the yard above the plank walk. It was an ugly

house, surely. But an ugly house may look beautiful when surrounded by

such heavy trees as this was. Their shade was the most inviting thing

Stephen had seen. A boy of sixteen or so was swinging on the gate,

plainly a very mischievous boy, with a round, laughing, sunburned face

and bright eyes. In front of the gate was a shabby carriage with top and

side curtains, hitched to a big bay horse.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Lincoln lives?" inquired Stephen.

"Well, I guess," said the boy. "I'm his son, and he lives right here when

he's at home. But that hasn't been often lately."

"Where is he?" asked Stephen, beginning to realize the purport of his

conversations with citizens.

Young Mr. Lincoln mentioned the name of a small town in the northern part

of the state, where he said his father would stop that night. He told

Stephen that he looked wilted, invited him into the house to have a glass

of lemonade, and to join him and another boy in a fishing excursion with

the big bay horse. Stephen told young Mr. Lincoln that he should have to

take the first train after his father.

"Jimmy!" exclaimed the other, enviously, "then you'll hear the Freeport

debate."

Now it has been said that the day was scorching hot. And when Stephen had

got back to the wooden station, and had waited an hour for the

Bloomington express, his anxiety to hear the Freeport debate was not as

keen as it might have been. Late in the afternoon he changed at

Bloomington to the Illinois Central Railroad: The sun fell down behind

the cardboard edge of the prairie, the train rattled on into the north,

wrapped in its dust and Smoke, and presently became a long comet, roaring

red, to match that other comet which flashed in the sky.

By this time it may be said that our friend was heartily sick of his

mission, He tried to doze; but two men, a farmer and a clerk, got in at a

way station, and sat behind him. They began to talk about this man

Lincoln.

"Shucks," said the clerk, "think of him opposing the Little Giant."

"He's right smart, Sam," said the farmer. "He's got a way of sayin'

things that's clear. We boys can foller him. But Steve Douglas, he only

mixes you up."

His companion guffawed.

"Because why?" he shouted. "Because you ain't had no education: What does

a rail-sputter like Abe know about this government? Judge Douglas has

worked it all out. He's smart. Let the territories take care of

themselves. Besides, Abe ain't got no dignity. The fust of this week I

seen him side-tracked down the road here in a caboose, while Doug went by

in a special."

"Abe is a plain man, Sam," the farmer answered solemnly. "But you watch

out for him."

It was ten o'clock when Stephen descended at his destination. Merciful

night hid from his view the forlorn station and the ragged town. The

baggage man told him that Mr. Lincoln was at the tavern.

That tavern! Will words describe the impression it made on a certain

young man from Boston! It was long and low and ramshackly and hot that

night as the inside of a brick-kiln. As he drew near it on the single

plant walk over the black prairie-mud, he saw countrymen and politicians

swarming its narrow porch and narrower hall. Discussions in all keys were

in progress, and it, was with vast difficulty that our distracted young

man pushed through and found the landlord, This personage was the coolest

of the lot. Confusion was but food for his smiles, importunity but

increased his suavity. And of the seeming hundreds that pressed him, he

knew and utilized the Christian name of all. From behind a corner of the

bar he held them all at bay, and sent them to quarters like the old

campaigner he was.

"Now, Ben, tain't no use gettin' mad. You, and Josh way, an' Will, an'

Sam, an' the Cap'n, an' the four Beaver brothers, will all sleep in

number ten. What's that, Franklin? No, sirree, the Honerable Abe, and

Mister Hill, and Jedge Oglesby is sleepin' in seven." The smell of

perspiration was stifling as Stephen pushed up to the master of the

situation. "What's that? Supper, young man? Ain't you had no supper?

Gosh, I reckon if you can fight your way to the dinin' room, the gals'll

give you some pork and a cup of coffee."

After a preliminary scuffle with a drunken countryman in mud-caked boots,

Mr. Brice presently reached the long table in the dining-room. A sense of

humor not quite extinct made him smile as he devoured pork chops and

greasy potatoes and heavy apple pie. As he was finishing the pie, he

became aware of the tavern keeper standing over him.

"Are you one of them flip Chicagy reporters?" asked that worthy, with a

suspicious eye on Stephen's clothes.

Our friend denied this.

"You didn't talk jest like 'em. Guess you'll be here, tonight--"

"Yes," said Stephen, wearily. And he added, outs of force of habit, "Can

you give me a room?"

"I reckon," was the cheerful reply. "Number ten, There ain't nobody in

there but Ben Billings, and the four Beaver brothers, an' three more.

I'll have a shake-down for ye next the north window."

Stephen's thanks for the hospitality perhaps lacked heartiness. But

perceiving his host still contemplating him, he was emboldened to say:

"Has Mr. Lincoln gone to bed?"

"Who? Old Abe, at half-past ten? Wal I reckon you don't know him."

Stephen's reflections here on the dignity of the Senatorial candidate of

the Republican Party in Illinois were novel, at any rate. He thought of

certain senators he had seen in Massachusetts.

"The only reason he ain't down here swappin' yarns with the boys, is

because he's havin' some sort of confab with the Jedge and Joe Medill of

the 'Chicagy Press' and 'Tribune'."

"Do you think he would see me?" asked Stephen, eagerly. He was emboldened

by the apparent lack of ceremony of the candidate. The landlord looked at

him in some surprise.

"Wal, I reckon. Jest go up an' knock at the door number seven, and say

Tom Wright sent ye."

"How shall I know Mr. Lincoln?" asked Stephen.

"Pick out the ugliest man in the room. There ain't nobody I kin think of

uglier than Abe."

Bearing in mind this succinct description of the candidate, Stephen

climbed the rickety stairs to the low second story. All the bedroom doors

were flung open except one, on which the number 7 was inscribed. From

within came bursts of uproarious laughter, and a summons to enter.

He pushed open the door, and as soon as his eyes became, accustomed to

the tobacco smoke, he surveyed the room. There was a bowl on the floor,

the chair where it belonged being occupied. There was a very inhospitable

looking bed, two shake-downs, and four Windsor chairs in more or less

state of dilapidation--all occupied likewise. A country glass lamp was

balanced on a rough shelf, and under it a young man sat absorbed in

making notes, and apparently oblivious to the noise around him. Every

gentleman in the room was collarless, coatless, tieless, and vestless.

Some were engaged in fighting gnats and June bugs, while others battled

with mosquitoes--all save the young man who wrote, he being wholly

indifferent.

Stephen picked out the homeliest man in the room. There was no mistaking

him. And, instead of a discussion of the campaign with the other

gentlemen, Mr. Lincoln was defending what do you think? Mr. Lincoln was

defending an occasional and judicious use of swear words.

"Judge," said he, "you do an almighty lot of cussing in your speeches,

and perhaps it ain't a bad way to keep things stirred up."

"Well," said the Judge, "a fellow will rip out something once in a while

before he has time to shut it off."

Mr. Lincoln passed his fingers through his tousled hair. His thick lower

lip crept over in front of the upper one, A gleam stirred in the deep-set

gray eyes.

"Boys," he asked, "did I ever tell you about Sam'l, the old Quaker's

apprentice?"

There was a chorus of "No's" and "Go ahead, Abe?" The young man who was

writing dropped his pencil. As for Stephen, this long, uncouth man of the

plains was beginning to puzzle him. The face, with its crude features and

deep furrows, relaxed into intense soberness. And Mr. Lincoln began his

story with a slow earnestness that was truly startling, considering the

subject.

"This apprentice, Judge, was just such an incurable as you." (Laughter.)

"And Sam'l, when he wanted to, could get out as many cusses in a second

as his anvil shot sparks. And the old man used to wrastle with him nights

and speak about punishment, and pray for him in meeting. But it didn't do

any good. When anything went wrong, Sam'l had an appropriate word for the

occasion. One day the old man got an inspiration when he was scratching

around in the dirt for an odd-sized iron.

"'Sam'l,' says he, 'I want thee.'

"Sam'l went, and found the old man standing over a big rat hole, where

the rats came out to feed on the scraps.

"'Sam'l,' says he, 'fetch the tongs.'

"Sam'l fetched the tongs.

"'Now, Sam'l,' says the old man, 'thou wilt sit here until thou hast a

rat. Never mind thy dinner. And when thou hast him, if I hear thee swear,

thou wilt sit here until thou hast another. Dost thou mind?'"

Here Mr. Lincoln seized two cotton umbrellas, rasped his chair over the

bare boor into a corner of the room, and sat hunched over an imaginary

rat hole, for all the world like a gawky Quaker apprentice. And this was

a candidate for the Senate of the United States, who on the morrow was to

meet in debate the renowned and polished Douglas!

"Well," Mr. Lincoln continued, "that was on a Monday, I reckon, and the

boys a-shouting to have their horses shod. Maybe you think they didn't

have some fun with Sam'l. But Sam'l sat there, and sat there, and sat

there, and after a while the old man pulled out his dinner-pail. Sam'l

never opened his mouth. First thing you know, snip went the tongs." Mr.

Lincoln turned gravely around. "What do you reckon Sam'l said, Judge?"

The Judge, at random, summoned up a good one, to the delight of the

audience.

"Judge," said Mr. Lincoln, with solemnity, "I reckon that's what you'd

have said. Sam'l never said a word, and the old man kept on eating his

dinner. One o'clock came, and the folks began to drop in again, but

Sam'l, he sat there. 'Long towards night the boys collected 'round the

door. They were getting kind of interested. Sam'l, he never looked up."

Here Mr. Lincoln bent forward a little, and his voice fell to a loud,

drawling whisper. "First thing you know, here come the whiskers peeping

up, then the pink eyes a--blinking at the forge, then--!"

"Suddenly he brought the umbrellas together with whack.

"'By God,' yells Sam'l, 'I have thee at last!'"

Amid the shouts, Mr. Lincoln stood up, his long body swaying to and fro

as he lifted high the improvised tongs. They heard a terrified squeal,

and there was the rat squirming and wriggling,--it seemed before their

very eyes. And Stephen forgot the country tavern, the country politician,

and was transported straightway into the Quaker's smithy.

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH STEPHEN LEARNS SOMETHING

It was Mr. Lincoln who brought him back. The astonishing candidate for

the Senate had sunk into his chair, his face relaxed into sadness save

for the sparkle lurking in the eyes. So he sat, immobile, until the

laughter had died down to silence. Then he turned to Stephen.

"Sonny," he said, "did you want to see me?"

Stephen was determined to be affable and kind, and (shall we say it?) he

would not make Mr. Lincoln uncomfortable either by a superiority of

English or the certain frigidity of manner which people in the West said

he had. But he tried to imagine a Massachusetts senator, Mr. Sumner, for

instance, going through the rat story, and couldn't. Somehow,

Massachusetts senators hadn't this gift. And yet he was not quite sure

that it wasn't a fetching gift. Stephen did not quite like to be called

"Sonny." But he looked into two gray eyes, and at the face, and something

curious happened to him. How was he to know that thousands of his

countrymen were to experience the same sensation?

"Sonny," said Mr. Lincoln again, "did you want to see me?"

"Yes, sir." Stephen wondered at the "sir." It had been involuntary. He

drew from his inner pocket the envelope which the Judge had given him.

Mr. Lincoln ripped it open. A document fell out, and a letter. He put the

document in his tall hat, which was upside down on the floor. As he got

deeper into the letter, he pursed his mouth, and the lines of his face

deepened in a smile. Then he looked up, grave again.

Judge Whipple told you to run till you found me, did he, Mr. Brice?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is the Judge the same old criss-cross, contrary, violent fool that he

always was?"

Providence put an answer in Stephen's mouth.

"He's been very good to me, Mr. Lincoln."

Mr. Lincoln broke into laughter.

"Why, he's the biggest-hearted man I know. You know him, Oglesby,--Silas

Whipple. But a man has to be a Daniel or a General Putnam to venture into

that den of his. There's only one man in the world who can beard Silas,

and he's the finest states-right Southern gentleman you ever saw. I mean

Colonel Carvel. You've heard of him, Oglesby. Don't they quarrel once in

a while, Mr. Brice?"

"They do have occasional arguments,' said Stephen, amused.

"Arguments!" cried Mr. Lincoln; "well, I couldn't come as near to

fighting every day and stand it. If my dog and Bill's dog across the

street walked around each other and growled for half a day, and then lay

down together, as Carvel and Whipple do, by Jing, I'd put pepper on their

noses--"

"I reckon Colonel Carvel isn't a fighting man," said some one, at random.

Strangely enough, Stephen was seized with a desire to vindicate the

Colonel's courage. Both Mr. Lincoln and Judge Oglesby forestalled him.

"Not a fighting man!" exclaimed the Judge. "Why, the other day--"

"Now, Oglesby," put in Mr. Lincoln, "I wanted to tell that story."

Stephen had heard it, and so have we. But Mr. Lincoln's imitation of the

Colonel's drawl brought him a pang like homesickness.

"'No, suh, I didn't intend to shoot. Not if he had gone off straight. But

he wriggled and twisted like a rattlesnake, and I just couldn't resist,

suh. Then I sent m'nigger Ephum to tell him not to let me catch sight of

him 'round the Planters' House. Yes, suh, that's what he was. One of

these damned Yankees who come South and go into nigger-deals and

politics."'

Mr. Lincoln glanced at Stephen, and then again at the Judge's letter. He

took up his silk hat and thrust that, too, into the worn lining, which

was already filled with papers. He clapped the hat on his head, and

buttoned on his collar.

"I reckon I'll go for a walk, boys," he said, "and clear my head, so as

to be ready for the Little Giant to-morrow at Freeport. Mr. Brice, do you

feel like walking?"

Stephen, taken aback, said that he did.

"Now, Abe, this is just durned foolishness," one of the gentlemen

expostulated. "We want to know if you're going to ask Douglas that

question."

"If you do, you kill yourself, Lincoln," said another, who Stephen

afterwards learned was Mr. Medill, proprietor of the great 'Press and

Tribune'.

"I guess I'll risk it, Joe," said Mr. Lincoln, gravely. Suddenly comes

the quiver about the corners of his mouth and the gray eyes respond.

"Boys," said he, "did you ever hear the story of farmer Bell, down in

Egypt? I'll tell it to you, boys, and then perhaps you'll know why I'll

ask Judge Douglas that question. Farmer Bell had the prize Bartlett pear

tree, and the prettiest gal in that section. And he thought about the

same of each of 'em. All the boys were after Sue Bell. But there was only

one who had any chance of getting her, and his name was Jim Rickets. Jim

was the handsomest man in that section. He's been hung since. But Jim had

a good deal out of life,--all the appetites, and some of the

gratifications. He liked Sue, and he liked a luscious Bartlett. And he

intended to have both. And it just so happened that that prize pear tree

had a whopper on that year, and old man Bell couldn't talk of anything

else.

"Now there was an ugly galoot whose name isn't worth mentioning. He knew

he wasn't in any way fit for Sue, and he liked pears about as well as Jim

Rickets. Well, one night here comes Jim along the road, whistling; to

court Susan, and there was the ugly galoot a-yearning on the bank under

the pear tree. Jim was all fixed up, and he says to the galoot, 'Let's

have a throw.' Now the galoot knew old Bell was looking over the fence So

he says, 'All right,' and he gives Jim the first shot--Jim fetched down

the big pear, got his teeth in it, and strolled off to the house, kind of

pitiful of the galoot for a, half-witted ass. When he got to the door,

there was the old man. 'What are you here for?' says he. 'Why,' says

Rickets, in his off-hand way, for he always had great confidence, 'to

fetch Sue.'"

"The old man used to wear brass toes to keep his boots from wearing out,"

said Mr. Lincoln, dreamily.

"You see," continued Mr. Lincoln, "you see the galoot knew that Jim

Rickets wasn't to be trusted with Susan Bell."

Some of the gentlemen appeared to see the point of this political

parable, for they laughed uproariously. The others laughed, too. Then

they slapped their knees, looked at Mr. Lincoln's face, which was

perfectly sober, and laughed again, a little fainter. Then the Judge

looked as solemn as his title.

"It won't do, Abe," said he. "You commit suicide."

"You'd better stick to the pear, Abe," said Mr. Medill, "and fight

Stephen A. Douglas here and now. This isn't any picnic. Do you know who

he is?"

"Why, yes, Joe," said Mr. Lincoln, amiably. "He's a man with tens of

thousands of blind followers. It's my business to make some of those

blind followers see."

By this time Stephen was burning to know the question that Mr. Lincoln

wished to ask the Little Giant, and why the other gentlemen were against

it. But Mr. Lincoln surprised him still further in taking him by the arm.

Turning to the young reporter, Mr. Hill, who had finished his writing, he

said:

"Bob, a little air will do you good. I've had enough of the old boys for

a while, and I'm going to talk to somebody any own age."

Stephen was halfway down the corridor when he discovered that he had

forgotten his hat. As he returned he heard somebody say:

"If that ain't just like Abe. He stopped to pull a flea out of his

stocking when he was going to fight that duel with Shields, and now he's

walking with boys before a debate with the smartest man in this country.

And there's heaps of things he ought to discuss with us."

"Reckon we haven't got much to do with it," said another, half laughing,

half rueful. "There's some things Abe won't stand."

From the stairs Stephen saw Mr. Lincoln threading his way through the

crowd below, laughing at one, pausing to lay his hand on the shoulder of

another, and replying to a rough sally of a third to make the place a

tumult of guffaws. But none had the temerity to follow him. When Stephen

caught up with him in the little country street, he was talking earnestly

to Mr. Hill, the young reporter of the Press and Tribune. And what do you

think was the subject? The red comet in the sky that night. Stephen kept

pace in silence with Mr. Lincoln's strides, another shock in store for

him. This rail-splitter, this postmaster, this flat-boatman, whom he had

not credited with a knowledge of the New Code, was talking Astronomy. And

strange to say, Mr. Brice was learning.

"Bob," said Mr. Lincoln, "can you elucidate the problem of the three

bodies?"

To Stephen's surprise, Mr. Hill elucidated.

The talk then fell upon novels and stories, a few of which Mr. Lincoln

seemed to have read. He spoke, among others, of the "Gold Bug." "The

story is grand," said he, "but it might as well have been written of

Robinson Crusoe's island. What a fellow wants in a book is to know where

he is. There are not many novels, or ancient works for that matter, that

put you down anywhere."

"There is that genuine fragment which Cicero has preserved from a last

work of Aristotle," said Mr. Hill, slyly. "'If there were beings who

lived in the depths & the earth, and could emerge through the open

fissures, and could suddenly behold the earth, the sea, and the:--vault

of heaven--'"

"But you--you impostor," cried Mr. Lincoln, interrupting, "you're giving

us Humboldt's Cosmos."

Mr. Hill owned up, laughing.

It is remarkable how soon we accustom ourselves to a strange situation.

And to Stephen it was no less strange to be walking over a muddy road of

the prairie with this most singular man and a newspaper correspondent,

than it might have been to the sub-terrestrial inhabitant to emerge on

the earth's surface. Stephen's mind was in the process of a chemical

change: Suddenly it seemed to him as if he had known this tall Illinoisan

always. The whim of the senatorial candidate in choosing him for a

companion he did not then try to account for.

"Come, Mr. Stephen," said Mr. Lincoln, presently, "where do you hail

from?"

"Boston," said Stephen.

"No!" said Mr. Lincoln, incredulously. "And how does it happen that you

come to me with a message from a rank Abolitionist lawyer in St. Louis?"

"Is the Judge a friend of yours, sir?" Stephen asked.

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Lincoln, "didn't he tell you he was?"

"He said nothing at all, sir, except to tell me to travel until I found

you."

"I call the Judge a friend of mine," said Mr. Lincoln. "He may not claim

me because I do not believe in putting all slave-owners to the sword."

"I do not think that Judge Whipple is precisely an Abolitionist, sir."

"What! And how do you feel, Mr. Stephen?"

Stephen replied in figures. It was rare with him, and he must have caught

it from Mr. Lincoln.

"I am not for ripping out the dam suddenly, sir, that would drown the

nation. I believe that the water can be drained off in some other way."

Mr. Lincoln's direct answer to this was to give Stephen stinging slap

between the shoulder-blades.

"God bless the boy!" he cried. "He has thought it out. Bob, take that

down for the Press and Tribune as coming from a rising young politician

of St. Louis."

"Why," Stephen blurted out, "I--I thought you were an Abolitionist, Mr.

Lincoln."

"Mr. Brice," said Mr. Lincoln, "I have as much use for the Boston

Liberator as I have for the Charleston Courier. You may guess how much

that is. The question is not whether we shall or shall not have slavery,

but whether slavery shall stay where it is, or be extended according to

Judge Douglas's ingenious plan. The Judge is for breeding worms. I am for

cauterizing the sore so that it shall not spread. But I tell you, Mr.

Brice, that this nation cannot exist half slave and half free."

Was it the slap on the back that opened Stephen's eyes? It was certain

that as they returned to the tavern the man at his side was changed. He

need not have felt chagrined. Men in high places underestimated Lincoln,

or did not estimate him at all. Affection came first. The great warm

heart had claimed Stephen as it claimed all who came near it.

The tavern was deserted save for a few stragglers. Under the dim light at

the bar Mr. Lincoln took off his hat and drew the Judge's letter from the

lining.

"Mr. Stephen," said he, "would you like to come to Freeport with me

to-morrow and hear the debate?"

An hour earlier he would have declined with thanks. But now! Now his face

lighted at the prospect, and suddenly fell again. Mr. Lincoln guessed the

cause. He laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, and laughed.

"I reckon you're thinking of what the Judge will say."

Stephen smiled.

"I'll take care of the Judge," said Mr. Lincoln. "I'm not afraid of him."

He drew forth from the inexhaustible hat a slip of paper, and began to

write.

"There," said he, when he had finished, "a friend of mine is going to

Springfield in the morning, and he'll send that to the Judge."

And this is what he had written:--

"I have borrowed Steve for a day or two, and guarantee

to return him a good Republican.

A. LINCOLN."

It is worth remarking that this was the first time Mr. Brice had been

called "Steve" and had not resented it.

Stephen was embarrassed. He tried to thank Mr. Lincoln, but that

gentleman's quizzical look cut him short. And the next remark made him

gasp.

"Look here, Steve," said he, "you know a parlor from a drawing-room. What

did you think of me when you saw me to-night?"

Stephen blushed furiously, and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth.

"I'll tell you," said Mr. Lincoln, with his characteristic smile, "you

thought that you wouldn't pick me out of a bunch of horses to race with

the Senator."

CHAPTER IV

THE QUESTION

Many times since Abraham Lincoln has been called to that mansion which

God has reserved for the patriots who have served Him also, Stephen Brice

has thought of that steaming night in the low-ceiled room of the country

tavern, reeking with the smell of coarse food and hot humanity. He

remembers vividly how at first his gorge rose, and recalls how gradually

there crept over him a forgetfulness of the squalidity and discomfort.

Then came a space gray with puzzling wonder. Then the dawning of a

worship for a very ugly man in a rumpled and ill-made coat.

You will perceive that there was hope for Stephen. On his shake-down that

night, oblivious to the snores of his companions and the droning of the

insects, he lay awake. And before his eyes was that strange, marked face,

with its deep lines that blended both humor and sadness there. It was

homely, and yet Stephen found himself reflecting that honesty was just as

homely, and plain truth. And yet both were beautiful to those who had

learned to love them. Just so this Mr. Lincoln.

He fell asleep wondering why Judge Whipple had sent him.

It was in accord with nature that reaction came with the morning. Such a

morning, and such a place!

He was awakened, shivering, by the beat of rain on the roof, and

stumbling over the prostrate forms of the four Beaver brothers, reached

the window. Clouds filled the sky, and Joshway, whose pallet was under

the sill, was in a blessed state of moisture.

No wonder some of his enthusiasm had trickled away!

He made his toilet in the wet under the pump outside; where he had to

wait his turn. And he rather wished he were going back to St. Louis. He

had an early breakfast of fried eggs and underdone bacon, and coffee

which made him pine for Hester's. The dishes were neither too clean nor

too plentiful, being doused in water as soon as ever they were out of

use.

But after breakfast the sun came out, and a crowd collected around the

tavern, although the air was chill and the muck deep in the street.

Stephen caught glimpses of Mr. Lincoln towering above the knots of

country politicians who surrounded him, and every once in a while a knot

would double up with laughter. There was no sign that the senatorial

aspirant took the situation seriously; that the coming struggle with his

skilful antagonist was weighing him down in the least. Stephen held aloof

from the groups, thinking that Mr. Lincoln had forgotten him. He decided

to leave for St. Louis on the morning train, and was even pushing toward

the tavern entrance with his bag in his hand, when he was met by Mr.

Hill.

"I had about given you up, Mr. Brice," he said. "Mr. Lincoln asked me to

get hold of you, and bring you to him alive or dead."

Accordingly Stephen was led to the station, where a long train of twelve

cars was pulled up, covered with flags and bunting. On entering one of

these, he perceived Mr. Lincoln sprawled (he could think of no other word

to fit the attitude) on a seat next the window, and next him was Mr.

Medill of the Press and Tribune. The seat just in front was reserved for

Mr. Hill, who was to make any notes necessary. Mr. Lincoln looked up. His

appearance was even less attractive than the night before, as he had on a

dirty gray linen duster.

"I thought you'd got loose, Steve," he said, holding out his hand. "Glad

to see you. Just you sit down there next to Bob, where I can talk to

you."

Stephen sat down, diffident, for he knew that there were others in that

train who would give ten years of their lives for that seat.

"I've taken a shine to this Bostonian, Joe," said Mr Lincoln to Mr.

Medill. "We've got to catch 'em young to do anything with 'em, you know.

Now, Steve, just give me a notion how politics are over in St. Louis.

What do they think of our new Republican party? Too bran new for old St.

Louis, eh?"

Stephen saw expostulation in Mr. Medill's eyes, and hesitated. And Mr.

Lincoln seemed to feel Medill's objections, as by mental telepathy. But

he said:-- "We'll come to that little matter later, Joe, when the cars

start."

Naturally, Stephen began uneasily. But under the influence of that kindly

eye he thawed, and forgot himself. He felt that this man was not one to

feign an interest. The shouts of the people on the little platform

interrupted the account, and the engine staggered off with its load.

"I reckon St. Louis is a nest of Southern Democrats," Mr. Lincoln

remarked, "and not much opposition."

"There are quite a few Old Line Whigs, sir," ventured Stephen, smiling.

"Joe," said Mr. Lincoln, "did you ever hear Warfield's definition of an

Old Line Whig?"

Mr. Medill had not.

"A man who takes his toddy regularly, and votes the Democratic ticket

occasionally, and who wears ruffled shirts."

Both of these gentlemen laughed, and two more in the seat behind, who had

an ear to the conversation.

"But, sir," said Stephen, seeing that he was expected to go on, "I think

that the Republican party will gather a considerable strength there in

another year or two. We have the material for powerful leaders in Mr.

Blair and others" (Mr. Lincoln nodded at the name). "We are getting an

ever increasing population from New England, mostly of young men who will

take kindly to the new party." And then he added, thinking of his

pilgrimage the Sunday before: "South St. Louis is a solid mass of

Germans, who are all antislavery. But they are very foreign still, and

have all their German institutions."

"The Turner Halls?" Mr. Lincoln surprised him by inquiring.

"Yes. And I believe that they drill there."

"Then they will the more easily be turned into soldiers if the time

should come," said Mr. Lincoln. And he added quickly, "I pray that it may

not."

Stephen had cause to remember that observation, and the acumen it showed,

long afterward.

The train made several stops, and at each of them shoals of country

people filled the aisles, and paused for a most familiar chat with the

senatorial candidate. Many called him Abe. His appearance was the equal

in roughness to theirs, his manner if anything was more democratic,--yet

in spite of all this Stephen in them detected a deference which might

almost be termed a homage. There were many women among them. Had our

friend been older, he might have known that the presence of good women in

a political crowd portends something. As it was, he was surprised. He was

destined to be still more surprised that day.

When they had left behind them the shouts of the little down of Dixon,

Mr. Lincoln took off his hat, and produced a crumpled and not too

immaculate scrap of paper from the multitude therein.

"Now, Joe," said he, "here are the four questions I intend to ask Judge

Douglas. I am ready for you. Fire away."

"We don't care anything about the others," answered Mr. Medill. "But I

tell you this. If you ask that second one, you'll never see the United

States Senate."

"And the Republican party in this state will have had a blow from which

it can scarcely recover," added Mr. Judd, chairman of the committee.

Mr. Lincoln did not appear to hear them. His eyes were far away over the

wet prairie.

Stephen held his breath. But neither he, nor Medill, nor Judd, nor Hill

guessed at the pregnancy of that moment. How were they to know that the

fate of the United States of America was concealed in that Question,

--was to be decided on a rough wooden platform that day in the town of

Freeport, Illinois?

But Abraham Lincoln, the uncouth man in the linen duster with the tousled

hair, knew it. And the stone that was rejected of the builders was to

become the corner-stone of the temple.

Suddenly Mr. Lincoln recalled himself, glanced at the paper, and cleared

his throat. In measured tones, plainly heard above the rush and roar of

the train, he read the Question:

"Can the people of a United States Territory, in any lawful way,

against the wish of any citizen of the United States, exclude

slavery from its limits prior to the formation of a State

Constitution?"

Mr. Medill listened intently.

"Abe," said he, solemnly, "Douglas will answer yes, or equivocate, and

that is all the assurance these Northern Democrats want to put Steve

Douglas in the Senate. They'll snow you under."