The boy's face sobered in an instant. He felt as if someone had shot at him from behind a tree.
"Not that I ever saw, sir," he answered, quickly, straightening himself, a peculiar light in his eyes. "We love ours."
"Love 'em? Well, you don't treat 'em as if you loved 'em."
Margaret saw the cloud on Oliver's face and made a step toward her father.
"Mr. Horn lives in the city, father, and never sees such things."
"Well, if he does he knows all about it. You own negroes, don't you?" The voice was louder; the manner a trifle more insistent. Oliver could hardly keep his temper. Only Margaret's anxious face held him in check.
"No; not now, sir—my father freed all of his." The tones were thin and cold. Margaret had never heard any such sound before from those laughing lips.
Silas Grant was leaning forward out of his chair. The iron jaw was doing the talking now.
"Where are these negroes?" he persisted.
"Two of them are living with us, sir. They are in my father's house now."