CHAPTER V.

Capt.  Moore suddenly seized the poker, and commenced stirring the fire vigorously.  Neptune rushed to his covert under the piano, and Mrs. Moore called out, “Dont, dear, for heaven’s sake.”

“Why, it’s getting cold,” said Captain Moore, apologetically.  “Don’t you hear the wind?”

“Yes, but I don’t feel it, neither do you.  The fire cannot be improved.  See how you have made the dust fly!  You never can let well alone.”

“That is the trouble with the Abolitionists,” said Colonel Watson.  “They can’t let well alone, and so Mr. Kent and his party want to reorganize the Southern country.”

“There is no well there to let alone,” said Mr. Kent, with the air of a Solomon.

“Don’t talk so, Mr. Kent,” said Mrs. Moore, entreatingly, “for I can’t quarrel with you in my own house, and I feel very much inclined to do so for that one sentence.”

“Now,” said the bachelor captain, “I do long to hear you and Mr. Kent discuss Abolition.  The colonel and I may be considered disinterested listeners, as we hail from the Middle States, and are not politicians.  Captain Moore cannot interfere, as he is host as well as husband; and Mr. Jones and Scott have eaten too much to feel much interest in any thing just now.  Pray, tell Mr. Kent, my dear madam, of Susan’s getting you to intercede with her mistress to take her back, and see what he says.”

“I know it already,” said Mr. Kent, “and I must say that I am surprised to find Mrs. Moore inducing a fellow-creature to return to a condition so dreadful as that of a Southern slave.  After having been plucked from the fire, it should be painful to the human mind to see her thrown in again.”

“Your simile is not a good one, Mr. Kent,” said Mrs. Moore, with a heightened color.  “I can make a better.  Susan, in a moment of delirium, jumped into the fire, and she called on me to pull her out.  Unfortunately, I cannot heal all the burns, for I yesterday received an answer to my letter to her mistress, who positively refuses to take her back.  She is willing, but Mr. Casey will not consent to it.  He says that his wife was made very sick by the shock of losing Susan, and the over-exertion necessary in the care of her child.  The baby died in Boston; and they cannot overlook Susan’s deserting it at a hotel, without any one to take charge of it; they placing such perfect confidence in Susan, too.  He thinks her presence would constantly recall to Mrs. Casey her child’s death; besides, after having lived among Abolitionists, he fancies it would not be prudent to bring her on the plantation.  Having attained her freedom, he says she must make the best of it.  Mrs. Casey enclosed me ten dollars to give to Susan, for I wrote her she was in bad health, and had very little clothing when she came to me.  Poor girl!  I could hardly persuade her to take the money, and soon after, she brought it to me and asked me to keep it for her, and not to change the note that came from home.  I felt very sorry for her.”