"What sort of trouble?" I asked hastily.
Dr. Sandford hesitated, and then said, "I do not know how far people will go."
I mused, and forgot the sweet flutter of green leaves, and smell of moss and of hemlock, and golden bursts of sunshine, amongst which we were pursuing our way. Preston's strange heat and Southernism, Mr. Davis's wile and greatness, a coming
disputed election, quarrels between the people where I was born and the people where I was brought up, divisions and jealousies, floated before my mind in unlovely and confused visions. Then, remembering my father and my mother and Gary McFarlane, and others whom I had known, I spoke again.
"Whatever the Southern people say, they will do, Dr. Sandford."
"Provided—" said the doctor.
"What, if you please?"
"Provided the North will let them, Daisy."
I thought privately they could not hinder. Would there be a trial? Could it be possible there would be a trial?
"But you have not answered my question," said the doctor. "Aren't you going to answer it?"