tall, thin
figure in his long black coat, kindly, serious.

"It is a great problem, that of the two races," he continued musingly,
"a problem that the South alone can solve, since we know the black man,
his virtues and his limitations. He has come to us in his trouble and we
have helped and advised him. That is as it should be, but increasingly
he will have to live without our surveillance. For after all, no man is
fit to be the master of another; and not even the gentlemen of the South
were wise enough to be entrusted with the lives of other men. My father
fought to perpetuate the peculiar institution of slavery, and as a boy I
put a gun on my shoulder and went out in the last year of the war. We
thought that we were right, but we know now that we were mistaken."

"Yes."

"Sometimes I am afraid that as the country develops, as industry
increases, the friendly relations between the whites and the blacks will
wholly cease, and each will go his way, regardless of the other. But
that will never happen while you are here, I feel sure."

"Oh, no," Lee answered cheerfully, glad of the turn the conversation had
taken, "I like the darkies all right."

"That is not enough." John Merryvale turned and for the first time
looked straight into his son's face. "Men have stolen my acres from me,
but I have stolen from no man. I have tried to do no one an injustice,
honoring the least of His children. I have little to give you in money
and in acres; but I can give you this: the assurance that I have
wittingly wronged no man or woman. And I shall believe that when you
stand here, your hair gray, moving with slow feet, you will be able to
say to your son, 'I have wittingly wronged no man or woman.'

"It's getting late," he concluded, turning to leave. "I'll go to the
house to see if your aunt is needing me."

Lee stood alone for some minutes under the orange tree. He ran his hand
caressingly along the trunk as though he were touching something dear
and precious. Then, with sober face, as slowly as his father, he walked
through the twilight to the great house.

CHAPTER VIII

It seemed to Hertha as she sat at the open window after the others had
gone to bed that it was the most beautiful night she had ever known.
Utterly still, except for the eternal sound of the wind among the pines,
it yet was full of music; for, borne on the breeze from the river, some
one was calling, beseechingly, insistently, and she was answering in