"How comes that?" he said. "You are Southern?"
"Do I look it?" I asked.
"Pardon me—yes."
"How, Mr. Thorold?"
"You must excuse me. I cannot tell you. But you are South?"
"Yes," I said. "At least, all my friends are Southern. I was born there."
"You have one Northern friend," said Mr. Thorold, as we rose up to go on. He said it with meaning. I looked up and smiled. There was a smile in his eyes, mixed with something
more. I think our compact of friendship was made and settled then and at once.
He stretched out his hand, as if for a further ratification. I put mine in it, while he went on,—"How comes it, then, that you take such a view of such a question?"
There had sprung up a new tone in our intercourse, of more familiarity, and more intimate trust. It gave infinite content to me; and I went on to answer, telling him about my Northern life. Drawn on, from question to question, I detailed at length my Southern experience also, and put my new friend in possession not only of my opinions, but of the training under which they had been formed. My hand, I remember, remained in his while I talked, as if he had been my brother; till he suddenly put it down and plunged into the bushes for a bunch of wild roses. A party of walkers came round an angle a moment after; and waking up to a consciousness of our surroundings, we found, or I did, that we were just at the end of the rocky walk, where we must mount up and take to the plain.