“Ye-es, I cannot deny it; and to my father also. But we liked John for himself very much; and Cicely felt—”
But John’s sister did not care to hear what Cicely felt! “And was it on this island that he expected to make his fortune—in cotton?”
“No; these are rice lands, and they are worthless now that the dikes are down.”
“And the slaves gone.”
“Yes. But we never had many slaves; we were never rich. Now we are very poor, my dear; I don’t know that any one has mentioned it to you.”
“And yet you keep on all these infirm old negroes—those who would be unable to get employment anywhere else.”
“Oh, we should never turn away our old servants,” replied Miss Sabrina, with confidence.
That evening, at the judge’s suggestion, Cicely took her guitar. “What do you want me to sing, grandpa?”
“‘Sweet Afton.’”
So Cicely sang it. Then the judge himself sang, to Cicely’s accompaniment, “They may rail at this life.” He had made a modest bowl of punch: it was Christmas night, and every one should be merry. So he sang, in his gallant old voice: