Winthrop, who had arisen at her approach and remained standing until she had seated herself, settled back again and smiled encouragingly. He liked to hear her talk, liked the soft coo of her voice, liked the things she said, liked, besides, to watch the play of expression on her face.
“Father always said that the Yankees had no right to interfere with the South and that it wasn’t war with them, it was just homicide. Homicide’s where you kill someone else, isn’t it? I always get it mixed up with suicide.”
Winthrop nodded.
“That’s what he used to say, and I’m sure he believed it or he’d never have said it. But maybe he was mistaken. Was he, do you think?”
“He might have been a trifle biased,” said Winthrop.
Holly was silent a moment. Then——
“Uncle Major,” she continued, “used to argue with him, but father always had the best of it. I reckon, though, you Northerners are sorry now, aren’t you?”
“Sorry that there was war, yes,” answered Winthrop, smilingly; “but not sorry for what we did.”
“But if it was wrong?” argued Holly. “’Pears to me you ought to be sorry! Just see the heaps and heaps of trouble you made for the South! Julian says that you ought to have paid us for every negro you took away from us.”