"Bad logic, John," returned Rivers. "But soon there will be stones thrown."
"And who will cast the first stone?" rejoined Leila, rising.
"It is an ancient crime," said Rivers. "It was once ours, and it will be ours to end it. Now I leave you to finish your walk; I am tired." As they moved away, he looked after them. "Beauty, intelligence, perfect health—oh, my God!"
In August with ever resisted temptation John Penhallow went back to West
Point to take up his work again.
The autumn came, and in October, at night, the Squire read with dismay and anger of the tragic attempt of John Brown at Harper's Ferry. "My poor Ann," he exclaimed. He went at once from his library back to the hall, where Leila was reading aloud. "Ann," he said, "have you seen the papers to-day?"
"I have read no paper for a month, James. They only fill me with grief and the sense of how helpless I am—even—even—with those I love. What is it now, James?"
"An insane murderer named John Brown has made an attack on Harper's Perry with a dozen or so of infatuated followers." He went on to tell briefly the miserable story of a madman's folly.
"The whole North is mad," said Ann, not looking up, but knitting faster as she spoke, "mad—the abolitionists of Boston are behind it." It was too miserably true. "Thank you, James, for wanting to make me see in this only insanity."
The Squire stood still, watched by the pitiful gaze of Leila. "I want you, Ann—I wanted you to see, dear, to feel how every thoughtful man in the North condemns the wickedness of this, and of any, attempt to cause insurrection among the slaves."
"Yes—yes, of course—no doubt—but it is the natural result of Northern sentiment."