"But Uncle Jim will talk, and he likes to be asked when we are alone. I don't believe in slavery."
"It seems so queer, John, to own a man."
John grinned, "Or a girl, Leila."
"Well, no one owns me, I tell you; they'd have a hard time."
She shook what Rivers called her free-flowing cascade of hair in the pride of conscious freedom. The talk ran on. At last she said, "I'll tell you a queer thing. I heard Mr. Rivers say to uncle—I heard him say, we were all slaves. He said that no one owns himself. I think that's silly," said the young philosopher, "don't you, John?"
"I don't know," returned John; "I think it's a big puzzle. Let's go."
No word reached the Squire of the battle behind the church until four days later, when Rivers came in after dinner and found Penhallow in his library deep in thought.
"Worried, Squire?" he asked.
"Yes, affairs are in a bad way and will be until the election is over. It always disturbs commerce. The town will go Democratic, I suppose."
"Yes, as I told you, unless you take a hand and are in earnest and outspoken."