hated slavery, but did not know what would be done if the negroes were
free.

Dorothy did not appear. We rose from the table and went out to sit under
one of the great trees in the yard. I thought I saw an opportunity. Why
not talk to Mrs. Clayton? She could tell Dorothy what I was unable to
say to her. I set my will to the task.

"You seem to know about my father, Mrs. Clayton. And I want you to know
about me. I want Dorothy for my wife. We had a kind of a flare-up this
afternoon. I was trying to make my case clear, and Dorothy fell to
crying. That's all. You see I came to America in ignorance of
everything. No one had told me about my father's marriage; and I blame
my grandmother that she did not tell me. Well, I got to Jacksonville and
was terribly ill, almost died. Zoe took care of me. And that won me. But
in addition to that she is as much my father's child as I am. I found
that out as soon as I got up. Then I took her to live with me, to help
me with the house, without thinking that there would be talk, not only
by those who didn't know that she was my sister as well as by those who
did know it. I went to St. Louis to buy furnishings for my new house.
While I was gone a man named Lamborn wronged her. This made great
trouble for me. And one thing led to another. He was saying vile things
about me and about Zoe. And my life was getting more and more
unendurable day by day on account of this fellow. And at last I was
coming down the street with Reverdy one day, and this Lamborn suddenly
confronted me. I drew and killed him. The state's attorney, Mr. Douglas,
brought out all the facts before the coroner's jury. The jury acquitted
me before leaving their seats. Mr. Douglas told the jury that he would
not prosecute me if an indictment was found against me. And so..." I was
about to say that I had come to Nashville to get away from the
circumstances. But I caught myself and forebore.

Mrs. Clayton had followed me with rapt attention, leaning more and more
toward me as my story progressed. She put out her hand to take mine. I
could not tell whether it was the hand of pity or admiration. Her eyes
were kindly, but they searched me. She seemed to say: "What difficulty
in this boy's life is he trying to mingle with my daughter's life?" She
spoke. "It is too bad. You are too young to have such tragedy." That was
all. Then we went in.

As I arose the next morning I began to wonder what reception would be
accorded me by Mrs