come," said St. Clare, getting up quickly; "what do you know
about us?" And he sat down to the piano, and rattled a lively piece of
music. St. Clare had a decided genius for music. His touch was brilliant
and firm, and his fingers flew over the keys with a rapid and bird-like
motion, airy, and yet decided. He played piece after piece, like a man
who is trying to play himself into a good humor. After pushing the music
aside, he rose up, and said, gayly, "Well, now, cousin, you've given us
a good talk and done your duty; on the whole, I think the better of you
for it. I make no manner of doubt that you threw a very diamond of truth
at me, though you see it hit me so directly in the face that it wasn't
exactly appreciated, at first."

"For my part, I don't see any use in such sort of talk," said Marie.
"I'm sure, if anybody does more for servants than we do, I'd like to
know who; and it don't do 'em a bit good,--not a particle,--they get
worse and worse. As to talking to them, or anything like that, I'm sure
I have talked till I was tired and hoarse, telling them their duty, and
all that; and I'm sure they can go to church when they like, though they
don't understand a word of the sermon, more than so many pigs,--so it
isn't of any great use for them to go, as I see; but they do go, and so
they have every chance; but, as I said before, they are a degraded race,
and always will be, and there isn't any help for them; you can't make
anything of them, if you try. You see, Cousin Ophelia, I've tried, and
you haven't; I was born and bred among them, and I know."

Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and therefore sat silent. St.
Clare whistled a tune.

"St. Clare, I wish you wouldn't whistle," said Marie; "it makes my head
worse."

"I won't," said St. Clare. "Is there anything else you wouldn't wish me
to do?"

"I wish you _would_ have some kind of sympathy for my trials; you never
have any feeling for me."

"My dear accusing angel!" said St. Clare.

"It's provoking to be talked to in that way."

"Then, how will you be talked to? I'll talk to order,--any way you'll
mention,--only to give satisfaction."

A gay laugh from the court rang through the silken curtains of the
verandah. St. Clare stepped out, and lifting up the curtain, laughed
too.

"What is it?" said Miss Ophelia, coming to the railing.

There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every one of his
button-holes stuck full of cape jessamines,