“Yes, I am collecting from every section of the South the most promising specimens of negro boys and sending them to our great Northern Universities where they will be educated among men who treat them as equals, and I expect from the boys reared in this atmosphere, men of transcendent genius, whose brilliant achievements in science, art and letters will forever silence the tongues of slander against their race. The most interesting of these students I have at Harvard now is young George Harris. His mother is Eliza Harris, the history of whose escape over the ice of the Ohio River fleeing from slavery thrilled the world. This boy is a genius, and if he lives he will shake this nation.”
“It may be, Miss Walker. There are more ways than one to shake a nation. And while I ignore your work, as a citizen and public man,—privately and personally, I shall watch this experiment with profound interest.”
“I know it will succeed. I believe God made us of one blood,” she said with enthusiasm.
“Is it true. Madam, that you once endowed a home for homeless cats before you became interested in the black people?” With a twinkle in his eye the Preacher softly asked this apparently irrelevant question.
“Yes, sir, I did,—I am proud of it. I love cats. There are over a thousand in the home now, and they are well cared for. Whose business is it?”
“I meant no offense by the question. I love cats too. But I wondered if you were collecting negroes only now, or, whether you were adding other specimens to your menagerie for experimental purposes.”
She bit her lips, and in spite of her efforts to restrain her anger, tears sprang to her eyes as she turned toward the Preacher whose face now looked calmly down upon her with ill-concealed pride.
“Oh! the insolence of you Southern people toward those who dare to differ with you about the Negro!” she cried with rage.
“I confess it humbly as a Christian, it is true. My scorn for these maudlin ideas is so deep that words have no power to convey it. But come,” said the Preacher in the kindliest tone. “Enough of this. I am pained to see tears in your eyes. Pardon my thoughtlessness. Let us forget now for a little while that you are an idea, and remember only that you are a charming Boston woman of the household of our own faith. Let me call Mrs. Durham, and have you know her and discuss with her the thousand and one things dear to all women’s hearts.”
“No, I thank you! I feel a little sore and bruised, and social amenities can have no meaning for those whose souls are on fire with such antagonistic ideas as yours and mine. If Mrs. Durham can give me any sympathy in my work I’ll be delighted to see her, otherwise I must go.”