olored one. "That's the question for me to ask. What are you doing in
my house?" "Your house?" "Yes, my house!" "Niggers don't own houses in
dis here town no mo'; white uns air rulin' now," was the saucy response.
"We uns air in these houses, an' we air goin' ter stay in um. An' mo'n
thet; them's ther Mair's orders." "You poor white trash; I worked hard
for this house, and hold the deed for it, so you get out!" So saying,
she caught hold of the latch. The white woman rushed to the corner of
the fence and screamed "Police!" at the top of her voice.

"Well, what's ther mater here?" asked one of the four men who came
running up in response to the woman's call. "This nigger cums here ter
purt me out er this house." "This is my house!" broke in the other. "My
house," repeated the man, with a sneer. "Pocession is nine-tents er th'
law. She's in, you air out, so git." Several colored people had
responded to the call, most of them women. "Come, Eliza," said one,
putting her arms affectionately about the wretched and angry woman's
waist, while another took the little one in her arms. "It's no use to
waste words; we all have suffered at the hands of these superior (?)
people. But God will give the wrong-doer his reward in due season. Come
with us, my dear, and wait patiently." "All my nice furniture being
ruined by this dirty cracker, and I can do nothing to prevent it,"
sobbed Eliza, struggling to free herself that she might fly at the
throat of the intruder, who stood glaring at her in triumph.

"Take her er long," said the white bully, "Or I'll lock her up. The time
fer Niggers ter sass white fo'ks is past in Wilmington."

"Come, Eliza; that's a good woman." The woman walked reluctantly away,
to be cared for by her neighbors.

* * * * *

That evening at about dusk Mrs. McLane, an old and wealthy white
citizen, stood at the window of her palatial dwelling on Third street
watching the twilight fade--watching the Thanksgiving Day of 1898 slowly
die. Mrs. McLane had not attended church; she felt more like hiding away
from the world to be alone with God. In her devotions that morning she
had cried out with all the fervency of her soul that God would turn away
his anger from a people with whom He was justly displeased.

"My people are to-day imbued with the feeling of boastfulness in their
own strength rather than thankfulness to God. For can any of us feel
that God has countenanced the murder, pi