lieve you have grown an inch since I
left."

They went in, chatting and merry. The Squire cast an amused look at the
big spittoon and then at his wife, and went upstairs to dress for dinner.
At the meal no one for a variety of good reasons mentioned Josiah. The
tall soldier with the readiness of helpless courtesy fell into the talk
of politics which Grey desired. "Yes, Buchanan will carry the State,
Grey, but by no large majority."

"And the general election?" asked the cousin.

"Yes, that is my fear. He will be elected."

Ann, who dreaded these discussions, had just now a reproachful political
conscience. She glanced at her husband expecting him to defend his
beliefs. He was silent, however, while Grey exclaimed, "Fear, sir--fear?
You surely cannot mean to say--to imply that the election of a black
Republican would be desirable." He laid down his fork and was about to
become untimely eloquent--Rivers smiled--watching the Squire and his
wife, as Penhallow said:

"Pardon me, Grey, but I cannot have my best mutton neglected."

"Oh, yes--yes--but a word--a word. Elect Fremont--and we secede. Elect
Buchanan--and the Union is safe. There, sir, you have it in a nutshell."

"Ah, my dear Grey," said Penhallow, "this is rather of the nature of a
threat--never a very digestible thing--for me, at least--and I am not
very convincible. We will discuss it over our wine or a cigar." He turned
to his wife, "Any news of Leila, Ann?"

"Yes, I had a letter to-day," she returned, somewhat relieved. "She seems
to be better satisfied."

Grey accepted the interrupting hint and fell to critical talk of the
Squire's horses. After the wine Penhallow carried off his guest to the
library, and avoiding politics with difficulty was unutterably bored by
the little gentleman's reminiscent nothings about himself, his crops,
tobacco, wines, his habits of life, what agreed with him and what did
not. At last, with some final whisky, Mr. Grey went to bed.

Ann, who was waiting anxiously, eager to get through with the talk she
dreaded, went at once into the library. Penhallow rising threw his cigar
into the fire. She laughed, but not in her usual merry way, and cried,
"Do smoke, James, I shall not mind it; I am forever disciplined to any
fate. There is a spittoon in the hall--a spittoon!"

The Squire laughed joyously, and kissed her. "I can wait for my pipe; we
can't have any lapse in domestic discipline." Then he added, "I hear that
my good Jo