o their masters. Yet
here, before his child had learned to fondle his cheek, or his
home-coming was six hours old, his first night of peace in beloved
Rosemont had been blighted by this vile ingrate forcing upon him the
exercise of the only discipline, he fully believed, for which such a
race of natural slaves could have a wholesome regard. The mother sang
again, murmurously. The soldier grasped his suffering arm, and returned
to thought.

The war, his guest had said, had not taken the slaves away. It could
only redistribute them, under a new bondage of wages instead of the old
bondage of pure force. True. And the best and the wisest servants would
now fall to the wisest and kindest masters. Oh, for power to hasten
to-morrow's morning, that he might call to him again that menial band
down in the yard, speak to them kindly, even of Cornelius's fault, bid
them not blame the outcast resentfully, and assure them that never while
love remained stronger in them than pride, need they shake the light
dust of Rosemont from their poor shambling feet.

He rose, stole to the door of the inner room, pushed it noiselessly, and
went in. Barbara, in her crib, was hidden by her mother standing at her
side. The wife turned, glanced at her husband's wounded arm, and made a
soft gesture for him to keep out of sight. The child was leaning against
her mother, saying the last words of her own prayer.

"An' Dod bless ev'ybody, Uncle Leviticus, an' Aunt Jinny, an' Johanna,
an' Willis, an' Trudie, an' C'nelius"--a sigh--"an mom-a, an'--that's
all--an'----"

"And pop-a?"

No response. The mother prompted again. Still the child was silent. "And
pop-a, you know--the best last."

"An' Dod bless the best last," said Barbara, sadly. A pause.

"Don't you know all good little girls ask God to bless their pop-a's?"

"Do they?"

"Yes."

"Dod bless pop-a," she sighed, dreamily; "an' Dod bless me, too,
an'--an' keep me f'om bein' a dood little dirl.--Ma'am?--Yes, ma'am.
Amen."

She laid her head down, and in a moment was asleep. Husband and wife
passed out together. The wounded arm, its pain unconfessed, was cared
for, pious prayers were said, and the pair lay down to slumber.

Far in the night the husband awoke. He could think better now, in the
almost perfect stillness. There were faint signs of one or two servants
being astir, but in the old South that was always so. He pondered again
upon the present and the future of the unhappy race up