“Yes,” she returned gaily, “and with me for your farmeress.”

“You are, you are!” he laughed, “and you have cultivated me.  I am well broken to your satisfaction, I trust; but to me, Ann, the unpaid labour of the slave seems impossible.”

“Oh, James, it is not only possible, but right for us who know what for all concerned is best.”

“Well, well,” he laughed, “the vegetable garden seems to be run at a profit without them—­ah!  Ann, how about that?”

The talk was, as they both knew, more serious than it would have seemed to any one who might have chanced to be present.  The tact born of perfect love has the certainty of instinct, and to be sensitive even to tenderness in regard to the prejudices or the fixed opinions of another does much to insure happiness both in friendship and in love.  Here with these two people was a radical difference of belief concerning what was to be more and more a hard subject as the differences of sentiment North and South became sharply defined.  Westways and the mills understood her, and what were her political beliefs, but not the laughingly guarded silence of the much loved and usually outspoken Squire, who now and then relieved his mind by talking political history to John or Rivers.

The stables and farm were seriously inspected and opinions expressed concerning colts and horses to the amusement of the grooms.  He presided in Penhallow’s place at table with some sense of newly acquired importance, and on the fourth day of his uncle’s absence, at Mark Rivers’s request, asked Mr. Grace to join them.  The good Baptist was the more pleased to come in the absence of Mrs. Penhallow, who liking neither his creed nor his manners, respected the goodness of a life of self-denial, which, as his friend Rivers knew, really left him with hardly enough to keep his preaching soul alive.

“Grace is late, as usual,” said Rivers to John.  “He has, I believe, no acquaintance with minutes and no more conception of time than the angels.  Ah!  I see him.  His table-manners really distress your aunt; but manners are—­well, we will leave that to another time.  Good evening, Grace.”

“Glad to see you, sir,” said John.

On a word from Rivers, the guest offered thanks, which somewhat amazed John by its elaborate repetitions.

The stout little preacher, carefully tucking his napkin between his paper shirt-collar and his neck, addressed himself to material illustration of his thankfulness, while the rector observed with a pitiful interest the obvious animal satisfaction of the man.  John with more amusement saw the silver fork used for a time and at last abandoned for use of the knife.  Unconsciously happier for an unusually good dinner, Grace accepted a tumbler of the Penhallow cider, remarking, “I never take spirits, Rivers, but I suppose cider to be a quite innocent beverage.”

Rivers smiled.  “It will do you no harm.”

“It occurs to me, Rivers,” said Grace, “that although wine is mentioned in the Bible, cider is not.  There is no warning against its use.”