thing
more than friendship in it? what did she mean? He was not one of those
whose place in a woman's heart could never be supplied. How would an
alliance with Maria affect his mother's dignity? All these things Tom
evolves over and over in his mind. In point of position, a mechanic's
daughter was not far removed from the slave; a mechanic's daughter was
viewed only as a good object of seduction for some nice young gentleman.
Antiquarians might get a few bows of planter's sons, the legal gentry,
and cotton brokers (these make up our aristocracy), but practically no
one would think of admitting them into decent society. They, of right,
belong to that vulgar herd that live by labor at which the slave can be
employed. To be anything in the eyes of good society, you must only live
upon the earnings of slaves.

"Why," says Tom, "should I consult the dignity of a mother who discards
me? The love of this lone daughter of the antiquary, this girl who
strives to know my wants, and to promote my welfare, rises superior to
all. I will away with such thoughts! I will be a man!" Maria, with eager
eye and thoughtful countenance, sits at the little antique centre-table,
reading Longfellow's Evangeline, by the pale light of a candle. A lurid
glare is shed over the cavern-like place. The reflection plays curiously
upon the corrugated features of the old man, who, his favorite cat at
his side, reclines on a stubby little sofa, drawn well up to the fire.
The poet would not select Maria as his ideal of female loveliness; and
yet there is a touching modesty in her demeanor, a sweet smile ever
playing over her countenance, an artlessness in her conversation that
more than makes up for the want of those charms novel writers are
pleased to call transcendent. "Father!" she says, pausing, "some one
knocks at the outer door." The old man starts and listens, then hastens
to open it. There stands before him the figure of a strange female,
veiled. "I am glad to find you, old man. Be not suspicious of my coming
at this hour, for my mission is a strange one." The old man's crooked
eyes flash, his deep curling lip quivers, his hand vibrates the candle
he holds before him. "If on a mission to do nobody harm," he responds,
"then you are welcome." "You will pardon me; I have seen you before. You
have wished me well," she whispers in a musical voice. Gracefully she
raises her veil over her Spanish hood, and advances cautiously, as the
old man closes the do