"But what would you do, uncle?"
"Oh, amend the Fugitive-Slave Law. Try the cases by jury. Let slavery alone to cure itself, as it would in time. It would if we let it alone."
"And Kansas?" asked Leila.
"Oh, Douglas is right, but his view of the matter will never satisfy the South nor the extreme men at the North. My dear Leila, the days are dark and will be darker, and worst of all they really think we are afraid." His face grew stern. "I hate to talk about it. Have you heard from John lately?"
"Yes, only last week."
"And you write to him, of course?"
"Yes, I answer his letters. Aunt Ann writes every Sunday. Are things better at the mills?"
"Rather. Now for a gallop—it puts me always in a more hopeful humour.
Don't let your aunt overwork you, Leila; she will."
"She can't, Uncle Jim." It was true. Leila gently rebelled against incessant good works—sewing-classes for the village girls, Sunday school, and the endless errands which left no time for books. Her occasional walks with Marks Rivers enabled her to form some clear idea of the difference of opinion which so sharply divided parties north of Maryland. His own belief was that slavery was a sinful thing with which there should be no truce and no patient waiting upon the influence of time. He combated the Squire's equally simple creed—the unbroken union of the States. She fought the rector hard, to his delight. Far more pleasant on three afternoons in the week were the lessons in Italian with her aunt, and Rivers's brilliant commentary on Dante. The months ran on into and through the winter, with an economical Christmas to Ann's regret.
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