“In the meantime,” pursued Muriel, “we’ll put Roux on salary sufficient to cover all expenses till he gets settled again. Then, there’s his shop to be closed up, and his furniture to be removed, all which is on your broad shoulders, my Atlas.”
“I’ll bear the load!” said Harrington, gaily.
“For it won’t do to have Roux burdened with it,” she continued, “lest in his removing he should be removed.”
“See here. Can’t I help?” put in Wentworth. “I burn with ardor.”
“Oh, Raffaello!” bantered Muriel, with a gay and charming smile—“you? Flower of painters, I fear me that you will not find such anti-slavery service to your taste! However, we will see. Yes, Richard, seriously, you shall help if you want to.”
“Good!” said Wentworth, laughingly. “What a nest of traitors to the blessed old granny of a Government we are!”
“My faith!” said Muriel, with bewitching levity, “if they will have their Fugitive Slave Law, they shall also have their traitors to balance. But there was once a time,” she fervently added, “when a poor man could earn his bread in the city which I love, with none to molest him or make him afraid, and may that good time come again.”
“Amen!” cried Wentworth. “And, apropos, have any of you seen the papers to-day? Have, you heard the great news?”
“I have not,” said Muriel.
“Nor I,” said Harrington. “What is it?”