elp neither the squirrel nor
the South. You think we can throw stones at the chipmunk and make her
drop it--and--"

"Bad logic, John," returned Rivers. "But soon there will be stones
thrown."

"And who will cast the first stone?" rejoined Leila, rising.

"It is an ancient crime," said Rivers. "It was once ours, and it will
be ours to end it. Now I leave you to finish your walk; I am tired." As
they moved away, he looked after them. "Beauty, intelligence, perfect
health--oh, my God!"

In August with ever resisted temptation John Penhallow went back to West
Point to take up his work again.

The autumn came, and in October, at night, the Squire read with dismay
and anger of the tragic attempt of John Brown at Harper's Ferry. "My poor
Ann," he exclaimed. He went at once from his library back to the hall,
where Leila was reading aloud. "Ann," he said, "have you seen the papers
to-day?"

"I have read no paper for a month, James. They only fill me with grief
and the sense of how helpless I am--even--even--with those I love. What
is it now, James?"

"An insane murderer named John Brown has made an attack on Harper's Perry
with a dozen or so of infatuated followers." He went on to tell briefly
the miserable story of a madman's folly.

"The whole North is mad," said Ann, not looking up, but knitting faster
as she spoke, "mad--the abolitionists of Boston are behind it." It was
too miserably true. "Thank you, James, for wanting to make me see in this
only insanity."

The Squire stood still, watched by the pitiful gaze of Leila. "I want
you, Ann--I wanted you to see, dear, to feel how every thoughtful man in
the North condemns the wickedness of this, and of any, attempt to cause
insurrection among the slaves."

"Yes--yes, of course--no doubt--but it is the natural result of Northern
sentiment."

"Oh, Aunt Ann!"

"Keep quiet, child!"

"You should not have talked politics to me, James."

"But, my God, Ann, this is not politics!" He looked down at her
flushed face and with the fatal newspaper in his hand stood still a
moment, and then went back to his library. There he stayed before the
fire, distressed beyond measure. "Just so," he said, "the South will
take it--just so."

Ann Penhallow said, "Where did you leave off, Leila? Go on, my dear, with
the book."

"I can't. You were cruel to Uncle Jim--and he was so dear and sweet."

"If you can't read, you had better go to bed." Leila broke into tears and
stumbled u