water and carried him to the
stable, where he was visited by Leila and Rivers, and later departed this
life, much lamented. In the afternoon, being in a happy mood, John easily
persuaded Leila to abandon her ride, and walk with him.

When they sat down beside the Indian graves, to his surprise she suddenly
shifted the talk and said, "John, who would you vote for? I asked Aunt
Ann, and she said, 'Buchanan, of course'; and when I asked Uncle Jim, he
said, 'Fremont'; but I want to understand. I saw in the paper that it was
wicked to keep slaves, but my cousins in Maryland have slaves; it can't
be wicked."

"Would you like to be bought and sold?" he said.

"But, I am not black, John."

"I believe old Josiah was a slave."

"Every one knows that. Why did he run away, John?"

"Because he wanted to be free, I suppose, and not have to work without
pay."

"And don't they pay slaves?" asked Leila.

"No, they don't." John felt unable to make clear to her why the two
people they respected and loved never discussed what the village talked
about so freely. These intelligent children were in the toils of a
question which was disturbing the consciences and the interests of a
continent. The simpler side was clear to both of them. The idea of
selling the industrious old barber was as yet enough to settle their
politics.

"Aunt Ann must have good reasons," said John. "Mr. Rivers says she is the
most just woman he ever knew." It puzzled him. "I suppose we are too
young to understand."

"Aunt Ann will never talk about slaves. I asked her last week."

"But Uncle Jim will talk, and he likes to be asked when we are alone. I
don't believe in slavery."

"It seems so queer, John, to own a man."

John grinned, "Or a girl, Leila."

"Well, no one owns me, I tell you; they'd have a hard time."

She shook what Rivers called her free-flowing cascade of hair in the
pride of conscious freedom. The talk ran on. At last she said, "I'll tell
you a queer thing. I heard Mr. Rivers say to uncle--I heard him say, we
were all slaves. He said that no one owns himself. I think that's silly,"
said the young philosopher, "don't you, John?"

"I don't know," returned John; "I think it's a big puzzle. Let's go."

No word reached the Squire of the battle behind the church until four
days later, when Rivers came in after dinner and found Penhallow in his
library deep in thought.

"Worried, Squire?" he asked.

"Yes, affairs are in a bad way and wil