He was not at all sure, for instance, that the negroes could be made into anything much more significant than they were.  At any rate, it was a long uphill struggle for them, of which many future generations would not witness the conclusion.  He had no particular quarrel with the theory that they should be free; he saw no particular reason why the South should not protest vigorously against the destruction of their property and their system.  It was too bad that the negroes as slaves should be abused in some instances.  He felt sure that that ought to be adjusted in some way; but beyond that he could not see that there was any great ethical basis for the contentions of their sponsors.  The vast majority of men and women, as he could see, were not essentially above slavery, even when they had all the guarantees of a constitution formulated to prevent it.  There was mental slavery, the slavery of the weak mind and the weak body.  He followed the contentions of such men as Sumner, Garrison, Phillips, and Beecher, with considerable interest; but at no time could he see that the problem was a vital one for him.  He did not care to be a soldier or an officer of soldiers; he had no gift for polemics; his mind was not of the disputatious order—­not even in the realm of finance.  He was concerned only to see what was of vast advantage to him, and to devote all his attention to that.  This fratricidal war in the nation could not help him.  It really delayed, he thought, the true commercial and financial adjustment of the country, and he hoped that it would soon end.  He was not of those who complained bitterly of the excessive war taxes, though he knew them to be trying to many.  Some of the stories of death and disaster moved him greatly; but, alas, they were among the unaccountable fortunes of life, and could not be remedied by him.  So he had gone his way day by day, watching the coming in and the departing of troops, seeing the bands of dirty, disheveled, gaunt, sickly men returning from the fields and hospitals; and all he could do was to feel sorry.  This war was not for him.  He had taken no part in it, and he felt sure that he could only rejoice in its conclusion—­not as a patriot, but as a financier.  It was wasteful, pathetic, unfortunate.

The months proceeded apace.  A local election intervened and there was a new city treasurer, a new assessor of taxes, and a new mayor; but Edward Malia Butler continued to have apparently the same influence as before.  The Butlers and the Cowperwoods had become quite friendly.  Mrs. Butler rather liked Lillian, though they were of different religious beliefs; and they went driving or shopping together, the younger woman a little critical and ashamed of the elder because of her poor grammar, her Irish accent, her plebeian tastes—­as though the Wiggins had not been as plebeian as any.  On the other hand the old lady, as she was compelled to admit, was good-natured and good-hearted.  She loved to give, since she had plenty, and sent presents here and there to Lillian, the children, and others.  “Now youse must come over and take dinner with us”—­the Butlers had arrived at the evening-dinner period—­or “Youse must come drive with me to-morrow.”