“Oh, la! I asked you who he is.”
Rhoda hesitated, considering whether or not it would be prudent to let Charlotte know the identity of her father’s visitor. For there was much pro-southern sentiment in Hillside and, although John Brown was not yet an outlaw with a price on his head, he was detested and considered an active enemy by all friends of the South. Charlotte noted her pause and bent upon her a keen gaze. Apparently Rhoda did not want to tell her who he was and therefore it became at once an urgent necessity for her to find out. Rhoda felt those intent brown eyes studying her face and decided it would be better not to give her sister reason for suspecting any mystery.
“I suppose he’s some old nigger-stealer,” Charlotte was saying, still watching Rhoda’s expression, “and that’s why you think he’s such a noble character. Lloyd thinks, and so do I, that nigger-stealing ought to be punished by hanging.”
Rhoda smiled at her. “Would my little sister like to see me hanging from a limb of that maple tree yonder?”
“But you’d quit if you knew you were going to be hung for it.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
Charlotte regarded her with wide eyes. In her secret heart she was beginning to feel not a little awe of this quiet elder sister upon whose countenance she sometimes surprised a look of exaltation. And therefore, to save her own sense of dignity, immensely increased by the prospect of her marriage, she had taken refuge in a patronizing manner.
“Of course you would,” she said, with a superior air and a toss of her pretty head. “You say that just to brave it out. Has old Mr. White-Beard come to help you make plans to get arrested again?”
“No. He wanted to see father.”
“Oh, well! Who is he? John Brown, or Horace Greeley, or Governor Chase? One of them is as bad as another and they’re all tarred with the same brush.”