efore he was twenty-five, was a mere suggestion
from Charity Lomax. The story was never really known to but two persons
until after the war, when it came out because it was a good story and
there was no particular reason for its concealment.

Young Owens had attended the trial of this slave-stealer, or
martyr,--either or both,--and, when it was over, had gone to call on
Charity Lomax, and, while they sat on the veranda after sundown, had
told her all about the trial. He was a good talker, as his career in
later years disclosed, and described the proceedings very graphically.

"I confess," he admitted, "that while my principles were against the
prisoner, my sympathies were on his side. It appeared that he was of
good family, and that he had an old father and mother, respectable
people, dependent upon him for support and comfort in their declining
years. He had been led into the matter by pity for a negro whose master
ought to have been run out of the county long ago for abusing his
slaves. If it had been merely a question of old Sam Briggs's negro,
nobody would have cared anything about it. But father and the rest of
them stood on the principle of the thing, and told the judge so, and the
fellow was sentenced to three years in the penitentiary."

Miss Lomax had listened with lively interest.

"I 've always hated old Sam Briggs," she said emphatically, "ever since
the time he broke a negro's leg with a piece of cordwood. When I hear of
a cruel deed it makes the Quaker blood that came from my grandmother
assert itself. Personally I wish that all Sam Briggs's negroes would run
away. As for the young man, I regard him as a hero. He dared something
for humanity. I could love a man who would take such chances for the
sake of others."

"Could you love me, Charity, if I did something heroic?"

"You never will, Dick. You 're too lazy for any use. You 'll never do
anything harder than playing cards or fox-hunting."

"Oh, come now, sweetheart! I 've been courting you for a year, and it 's
the hardest work imaginable. Are you never going to love me?" he
pleaded.

His hand sought hers, but she drew it back beyond his reach.

"I 'll never love you, Dick Owens, until you have done something. When
that time comes, I 'll think about it."

"But it takes so long to do anything worth mentioning, and I don't want
to wait. One must read two years to become a lawyer, and work five more
to make a reputation. We shall both be gray by