“But this is a serious subject, my boy, Auguste,” said Miss Ophelia, laying her hand on his forehead.

“Dismally so,” said he; “and I—­well, I never want to talk seriously in hot weather.  What with mosquitos and all, a fellow can’t get himself up to any very sublime moral flights; and I believe,” said St. Clare, suddenly rousing himself up, “there’s a theory, now!  I understand now why northern nations are always more virtuous than southern ones,—­I see into that whole subject.”

“O, Augustine, you are a sad rattle-brain!”

“Am I?  Well, so I am, I suppose; but for once I will be serious, now; but you must hand me that basket of oranges;—­you see, you’ll have to ‘stay me with flagons and comfort me with apples,’ if I’m going to make this effort.  Now,” said Augustine, drawing the basket up, “I’ll begin:  When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for a fellow to hold two or three dozen of his fellow-worms in captivity, a decent regard to the opinions of society requires—­”

“I don’t see that you are growing more serious,” said Miss Ophelia.

“Wait,—­I’m coming on,—­you’ll hear.  The short of the matter is, cousin,” said he, his handsome face suddenly settling into an earnest and serious expression, “on this abstract question of slavery there can, as I think, be but one opinion.  Planters, who have money to make by it,—­clergymen, who have planters to please,—­politicians, who want to rule by it,—­may warp and bend language and ethics to a degree that shall astonish the world at their ingenuity; they can press nature and the Bible, and nobody knows what else, into the service; but, after all, neither they nor the world believe in it one particle the more.  It comes from the devil, that’s the short of it;—­and, to my mind, it’s a pretty respectable specimen of what he can do in his own line.”

Miss Ophelia stopped her knitting, and looked surprised, and St. Clare, apparently enjoying her astonishment, went on.

“You seem to wonder; but if you will get me fairly at it, I’ll make a clean breast of it.  This cursed business, accursed of God and man, what is it?  Strip it of all its ornament, run it down to the root and nucleus of the whole, and what is it?  Why, because my brother Quashy is ignorant and weak, and I am intelligent and strong,—­because I know how, and can do it,—­therefore, I may steal all he has, keep it, and give him only such and so much as suits my fancy.  Whatever is too hard, too dirty, too disagreeable, for me, I may set Quashy to doing.  Because I don’t like work, Quashy shall work.  Because the sun burns me, Quashy shall stay in the sun.  Quashy shall earn the money, and I will spend it.  Quashy shall lie down in every puddle, that I may walk over dry-shod.  Quashy shall do my will, and not his, all the days of his mortal life, and have such chance of getting to heaven, at last, as I find convenient.  This I take to be about what slavery is.  I defy