In the rector's fat body and the Major's lean one, he knew that there
beat hearts as chivalrous as their words. He had seen the Major doff his
hat to a beggar in the road, and the rector ride forty miles in a snowstorm
to read a prayer at the burial of a slave. So he said with a pleasant
laugh, "We are surely the best judges, my dear sirs," and then, as Mrs.
Lightfoot rustled in, they rose and fell back until she had taken her seat,
and found her knitting.
"I am so sorry not to see Mrs. Blake," she said to the rector. "I have a
new recipe for yellow pickle which I must write out and send to her." And,
as the Governor rose to go, she stood up and begged him to stay to supper.
"Mr. Lightfoot, can't you persuade him to sit down with us?" she asked.
"Where you have failed, Molly, it is useless for me to try," gallantly
responded the Major, picking up her ball of yarn.
"But I must bear your pardon to my little girl, I really must," insisted
the Governor. "By the way, Major," he added, turning at the door, "what do
you think of the scheme to let the Government buy the slaves and ship them
back to Africa? I was talking to a Congressman about it last week."
"Sell the servants to the Government!" cried the Major, hotly. "Nonsense!
nonsense! Why, you are striking at the very foundation of our society!
Without slavery, where is our aristocracy, sir?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said the Governor lightly. "Well, we shall keep
them a while longer, I expect.
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