may notmeet together to pray, on pain of the lash. They cannot haveBibles, for they are not allowed to read. They have no familylife; for husbands and wives and parents and children areparted and torn from each other at the will or for theinterest of their owners. They live like the animals."
"Not on my estates!" said papa, rousing himself again. "Thereis no selling and buying of the people there."
"Pete's wife was forcibly taken from him, papa, and then sentSouth."
"By whom?"
"By Edwards. And the rest of the hands were in mortal fear ofhim; utterly cowed. They dared not move without his pleasure."
"Abuses," papa muttered; - "nothing to do with the system."
"What must the system be where such things are possible? whereone such thing is possible? And oh, papa, they suffer! thereis no such thing as real comfort of life; there is no scope orliberty for the smallest upward tendency. Nothing is theirown, not their own time; they have no chance to be anythingbut inferior."
"They have all the essentials of comfortable living, and theyare comfortable," said my father.
"Papa, they do not think so."
"Few people do think so," said papa. "It is a vice ofhumanity."
I was silent a little bit, and then I ventured to say, -
"Papa, the Lord Jesus loved them well enough to die for them."
"Well," said papa, rather growlingly, "what then?"
"I am thinking, what will He say to us for handling them so."
"What would you do for them, Daisy?"
"All I could, papa," I said softly.
"How much could you, do you suppose?"
"Papa, I would not stop as long as there was anything more tobe done."
"I suppose you would begin by setting them all free?"
"Wouldn't you wish it, papa, for yourself and me, if we weretwo of them? - and for mamma and Ransom, if they were twomore?"
"You are mistaken in thinking it is a parallel case. They donot wish for liberty as we should."
"Then it only shows how much harm the want of liberty has donethem already. But they wish for it quite enough, papa; quiteenough. It breaks my heart to think how much they do wish forit."
"My child, you do not know what you are talking about!" papaanswered; half worried, I thought, and half impatient. "In thefirst place, they would not be better off if they were setfree; though you think they would; and in the second place, doyou know how it would affect our own condition?"
"Papa," I said low, - "it has nothing to do with the question.I do not care."
"You would care."
"I care for this other more, papa."
"Daisy, understand. Instead of being well off, you would bepoor; you would be poor. The Southern estates would be worthnothing without hands to cultivate them; and my Northernestates will go to your brother."
"I should never be rich in the way you think, papa."
"How so?"
"I would never be rich in that way."
"What would you do?"
"I would be poor."
"It is not so easy to do as to talk about," said my father."At the present time, Daisy, - I suppose, if you had yourwill, you would set at liberty at once all the people on theMagnolia plantations?"
"Indeed I would, papa."
"Then we should be reduced to a present nothing. The Melbourneproperty brings in very little, nothing, in fact, without amaster on the spot to manage it. I dare say some trifling rentmight be obtained for it; and the sale of Magnolia and itscorresponding estates would fetch something if the timesadmitted of sale. You know it is impossible now. We shouldhave scarce anything to live upon, my child, to satisfy yourphilanthropy."
"Papa, there was a poor woman once, who was reduced to ahandful of meal and a little oil as her whole household store.Yet at the command of the prophet of the Lord, she took someof it to make bread for him, before she fed herself and herchild - both of them starving. And the Lord never let her wanteither meal or oil all the time the famine lasted."
"Miracles do not come for people's help, now-a-days, Daisy."
"Papa, yes! God's ways may change, His ways of doing the samething; but He does not change. He takes care of His people nowwithout miracles, all the same."
"All the same!" repeated papa. "That is an Englishexpression, that you have caught from your friends."
We were both silent for a while.
"Daisy, my child, your views of all these things will alter byand by. You are young, and have slight experience of thethings of life. By and by, you will find it a much moreserious thing than you imagine to be without wealth. You wouldfind a great difference between the heiress and the pennilessgirl; a difference you would not like."
"Papa," I said slowly, - "I hope you will not be displeased orhurt, - but I want it to be known, and I wanted you shouldknow, that I never shall be an heiress. I never will be richin that way. I will take what God gives me."
"First throwing away what He has given you," said papa.
"I do not think He has given it, papa."
"What then? have we stolen it?"
"Not we; but those who have been before us, papa; they stoleit. All we are doing, is keeping that which is not ours."
"Enough too, I should think!" said papa. "You will alter yourmind, Daisy, about all this, if you wait a while. What do youthink your mother would say to it?"
"I know, papa," I said softly. "But I cannot help thinking ofwhat will be said somewhere else. I would like that you and I,and she too, might have that 'Well done' - which the LordJesus will give to some. And when they enter into the joy oftheir Lord, will they care what His service has cost them?"
My eyes were full of tears, and I could scarcely speak; for Ifelt that I had gained very little ground, or better no groundat all. What indeed could I have expected to gain? Papa satstill, and I looked over at Jerusalem, where the westing sunwas making a bath of sunbeams for the old domes and walls. Asort of promise of glory, which yet touched me exceedinglyfrom its contrast with present condition. Even so of otherthings, and other places besides Jerusalem. But Melbourneseemed to be in shadow. And Magnolia? -
I wondered what papa would say next, or whether our talk hadcome to a deadlock then and there. I had a great deal moremyself to say; but the present opportunity seemed to bequestionable. And then it was gone; for Mr. Dinwiddie mountedthe hill and came to take a seat beside us.
"Any news, Mr. Dinwiddie?" was papa's question, as usual.
"From America."
"What sort of news?"
"Confused sort - as the custom is. Skirmishes which amount tonothing, and tell nothing. However, there is a little morethis time. Fort Henry has been taken, on the Tennessee river,by Commander Foote and his gunboats."
"Successes cannot always be on one side, of course," remarkedmy father.
"Roanoke Island has been taken, by the sea and land forcesunder Burnside and Goldsborough."
"Has it!" - said papa. "Well, - what good will that do them?"
"Strengthen their hearts for continuing the struggle," saidMr. Dinwiddie. "It will do that."
"The struggle cannot last very long," said my father. "Theymust see sooner or later how hopeless it is."
"Not in the light of these last events," said Mr. Dinwiddie."What does my other friend here think about it?"
"About what, Mr. Dinwiddie?"
"The length of the struggle."
"Do you think Daisy has some special means of knowledge?"asked my father, carelessly.
"Well - yes," said Mr Dinwiddie. "She has been among Northernfriends a good while; perhaps she can judge better of theirtone and temper than I can, - or you, sir."
"I cannot hold just the view that you do, Mr. Dinwiddie, - orthat papa does."
"So I supposed. You think there are some good soldiers in theNorthern army."
"It would be absurd to suppose there are not," said my father;"but what they do want, is a right understanding of the spiritof the South. It is more persistent and obstinate, as well asstrong, than the
North takes any account of. It will notyield. It will do and endure anything first."
I thought I had heard papa intimate a doubt on that issue;however I said nothing.
"If _spirit_ would save a people," Mr. Dinwiddie rejoined,"those walls over against us would not bear the testimony theydo. No people ever fought with more spirit than this people.Yet Jerusalem is a heap of ruins."
"You do not mean that such a fate can overtake the wholeSouth?" said my father.
"I mean, that