So he seemed to be. His pulse was quick,
but not by any means so hurried as I had
expected. His skin had lost the burning
harshness of fever. It was evident that a crisis had
taken place, and that, even without medical aid,
the disease had taken a favourable turn. Having
asked and received replies to a few questions, I
wrote my prescription, and recommended
caution, lest a relapse should supervene. In that
country place, where chemists did not abound,
I was often obliged to furnish a temporary
supply of the drugs I ordered, and so it was in this
case. I had provided myself with quinine and
other medicaments before starting, and these I
supplied to Mrs. Clay with the necessary
instructions. She was to send one of the farm
hands next day to the druggist’s in Morgan
Town, to have my prescription properly made up.

I noticed, at supper, that my host and hostess
were somewhat thoughtful and restless, while
their two daughters, Ruth and Rachel, were in
excellent spirits. Never had I seen those
demure Quaker maidens so brisk and cheery,
and there was a look of sly and suppressed
mirth in their blue eyes which contrasted
strangely with their formal dresses of dove-
coloured silk, and the prim arrangement of their
shining braids of hair. I could only conclude
that they were amused by the presence of a
visitor from the great world beneath their
parents’ roof—a most unwonted event in the
calm of their monotonous existence. I would
not accept a bed, however, though it was late,
and though the worthy owners of the Holt
pressed me to stay all night. I declined,
borrowed a pony—there are always plenty of ponies
about a Virginian farm—and rode home through
the balmy air of night, and beneath the lustre of
a broad yellow moon.

Next morning, as I sallied out to pay my
usual round of calls among my town patients, I
encountered Major Blight, with an open
newspaper in his hand. The little major looked
yellower than ever, in his nankeens and loose cravat;
his ferret-like eyes were redder and fiercer, and
he was muttering to himself as he read.

The major, always the most choleric of men,
was working himself up into a towering passion.
I tried to pass him with a bow, but he intercepted
me.

“Good morning to you, doctor! Seen the
Gazette, eh? No! Then, sir, you are yet in
felicitous ignorance, sir, of the greatest and most
wanton outrage, and scandal, and disgrace, sir,
that ever was inflicted on a community of white
gentlemen.”

The major—he was only a militia officer, but
he was dreadfully warlike—had now run himself
out of breath, and he ended with a gasp. When
he recovered speech, he went on at great length,
and his statement, disencumbered of verbiage,
was as follows: A certain planter, named
Randolph, residing in one of the southern counties
of Eastern Virginia, had a valuable slave. This
slave was a young man: a very light-coloured
mulatto, or, more properly, a Quadroon, since
there was but a trace of African blood in his
veins. His name was Cato Hammond. He
had been a favourite with the late proprietor
of the estate, Mr. Randolph’s uncle; had
received some education, in spite of law and
prejudice; had shown great talent and a
strong mechanical bias. In fact, during
the life of his old master he had been
employed as a kind of subaltern engineer, in
constructing roads, bridges, mills, &c., and
had given much satisfaction. This slave had
married a girl of nearly the same shade of colour
as himself, and the old planter had promised to
emancipate the young couple, at any rate in his
will. But he had died and left no will: at least
no will formally executed: and the live chattels
had passed with the estate to the nephew, a
person of very different character. Major Blight
may tell the rest of the story.

“So, sir,” said the major, “my friend, Paul
Randolph, was not the man to encourage the
arrogance and conceit of a parcel of niggers.
The tobacco land was mostly wore out, and a
spec of mining didn’t answer; and Paul, my
friend, sir—known him from a boy, and a fine
high-spirited fellow he is—was pressed for money.
So, knowing there was a good demand for light
mulattoes to New Orleens, Paul sells the gal,
Betsy Hammond, for four thousand dollars, to a
dealer from the Gulf States. This fellow, Cato,
he goes on his knees and begs that his wife may
not be taken from him and sold into shame, and
a lot of theatrical stuff he’d got crammed into
his head; but Paul says, ‘I am sorry, Cato, but
I owe the money. Debts of honour, too, so
there’s no help for it.’ Gentlemanly conduct on
Paul’s part, I call that—explanationing and all
to his own nigger, eh?”

“What happened then, major?” asked I,
getting interested.

“Why,” said the little officer, “those nigger
scoundrels are the most artful, treacherous
whipsnakes in creation, and the most ungrateful
to boot. Seems this scamp of a Cato had hoarded
up a lot of money he’d earned by building and
surveying, in old Randolph’s time, meaning to
set up in business with it when he should be set
free. Nigh three thousand dollars! A pretty
penny for a coloured vagabond to earn! He
gave most of this to the dealer, on condition
he’d sell Betsy to respectable folks to Richmond
City, ’stead of taking her to New Orleens. And
what does the gal do but bolt off to Canada—
helped off along underground railway by some
of those pesky abolitionists, I guess.”

Here the major stopped to expectorate, and
utter a few oaths as a safety-valve to his fiery
temper.

“And the husband?” asked I.

“Oh, Paul guessed he’d be making tracks to
jine his wife in British territory, and he’d no
mind to be robbed that way. Yet he didn’t like
to sell the dog, he was so plaguy clever and
useful on the estate. So he jest cow-hided him
a bit, by way of warning, and put him in irons
every evening at sundown, in the overseer’s
cottage, to make all safe. With all this, my
gentleman gives his master the slip; files his