 This is The Preface to Dread, A Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp by Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom's Cabin. This edition published by the Riverside Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1892. First published in 1856. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by Michelle Fry, Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Historical note. The Great Dismal Swamp at the time of this writing was a vast inland habitat, spreading over more than one million acres of southeastern Virginia and northeastern North Carolina, where several African-American maroon societies lived during early American history. From the front of space, away to the dismal swampy speeds, his path was rugged and sore. Through tangled juniper beds of reeds, through many a fan where the serpent feeds, and man never tried before. And when on earth he sunk to sleep, if slumber his eyelids knew, he lay where the deadly vine doth weep its venomous tears that nightly steep the flesh with blistering dew. And now The Preface by Harriet Beecher Stowe. The writer of this book has chosen, once more, a subject from the scenes and incidents of the slave-holding states. The reason for such a choice is to fold. First in a merely artistic point of view, there is no ground ancient or modern whose vivid lights, gloomy shadows, and grotesque groupings afford to the novelists so wide a scope for the exercise of her powers. In the near vicinity of modern civilization of the most matter-of-fact kind exist institutions which carry us back to the twilight of the feudal ages with all their exciting possibilities of incident. Two nations, the types of two exactly opposite styles of existence, are here struggling, and from the intermingling of these two a third race has arisen and the three are interlocked in wild and singular relations that evolve every possible combination of romance. Hence, if the writer's only object had been the production of a work of art, she would have felt justified in not turning aside from that mine whose inexhaustible stores have but begun to be developed. But this object, however legitimate, was not the only nor the highest one. It is the moral bearings of the subject involved which have had the chief influence in its selection. The issues presented by the great conflict between liberty and slavery do not grow less important from year to year. On the contrary, their interest increases with every step in the development of the national career. Never has there been a crisis in the history of this nation so momentous as the present. If ever a nation was raised up by a divine providence and led forth upon a conspicuous stage as if for the express purpose of solving a great moral problem in the sight of all mankind, it is this nation. God in his providence is now asking the American people, is the system of slavery as set forth in the American slave code right? Is it so desirable that you will directly establish it over broad regions, where till now you have solemnly forbidden it to enter? And this question the American people are about to answer. Under such circumstances the writer felt that no apology was needed for once more endeavoring to do something towards revealing to the people the true character of that system. Once the people are to establish such a system let them do it with their eyes open with all the dreadful realities before them. One liberty has been taken which demands acknowledgment in the outset. The writer has placed in the mouth of one of her leading characters a judicial decision of Judge Ruffin of North Carolina, the boldness, clearness, and solemn eloquence of which have excited admiration both in the old world and the new. The author, having no personal acquaintance with that gentleman, the character to whom she attributes it, is to be considered as created merely on a principle of artistic fitness. To maintain the unity of the story some anachronisms with regard to the time of the session of the courts have been allowed for works of fiction must sometimes use some liberties in the grouping of incidents. But as mere cold art, unquickened by sympathy with the spirit of the age, is nothing, the author hopes that those who now are called to struggle for all that is noble in our laws and institutions may find in this book the response of a sympathizing heart. Dread of Preface Chapter 1 of Dread, A Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp by Harriet Beecher Stowe This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by Michelle Fry, Baton Rouge, Louisiana. And Chapter 1, The Mistress of Canemaw Bills, Harry? Yes? Dear me, where are they? There? No, here? Oh, look, what do you think of this scarf? Isn't it lovely? Yes, Miss Nonna, beautiful, but—oh, those bills! Yes, well, here goes. Here, perhaps in this box. No, that's my opera hat. By the by, what do you think of that? Isn't that a bunch of silver, wheat, lovely? Stop a bit, you shall see it on me. And with these words the slight little figure sprang up as if it had wings, and humming a waltzing tune, skimmed across the room to a looking-glass, and placed the jaunty little cap on the gay little head, and then, turning a pirouette on one toe, said, There now! There now! Ah, Harry! Ah, mankind, generally! The wisest of you have been made fools of by just such dancing, glittering, fluttering little assortments of curls, pendants, streamers, eyes, cheeks, and dimples. The little figure, scarce the height of the Venus, rounded as that of an infant, was shown to advantage by a coquettish morning dress of buff muslin, which fluttered open in front to display the embroidered skirt and trim little mouse of a slipper. The face was one of those provoking ones which set criticism at defiance. The hair, waving, curling, dancing hither and thither seemed to have a wild laughing grace of its own. The brown eyes twinkled like the pendants of a chandelier. The little wicked nose, which bore the forbidden upward curve, seemed to assert its right to do so with a saucy freedom. And the pendants of multiplied brilliance that twinkled in her ears, and the nodding wreath of silver wheat that set off her opera hat, seemed alive with mischief and motion. Well, what do you think, said a lively, imperative voice, just the kind of voice that you might have expected from the figure. The young man, to whom this question was addressed, was a well-dressed gentlemanly person of about thirty-five, with dark complexion and hair, and deep, full blue eyes. There was something marked and peculiar in the square, high forehead, and the finely formed features, which indicated talent and ability, and the blue eyes had a depth and strength of color that might cause them at first glance to appear black. The face, with its strongly marked expression of honesty and sense, had about it many care-worn and thoughtful lines. He looked at the little defiant fey for a moment, with an air of the most entire deference and admiration, then a heavy shadow crossed his face, and he answered abstractly, Yes, Miss Niner, everything you wear becomes pretty, and that is perfectly charming. Isn't it now, Harry? I thought you would think so. You see, it's my own idea. You ought to have seen what a thing it was when I first saw it in Madame Leblanc's window. There was a great, hot-looking feather on it, and two or three horrid bows. I had them out in a twinkling, and got this wheat in, which shakes so, you know. It's perfectly lovely. Well, do you believe the very night I wore it to the opera, I got engaged. Engaged, Miss Niner? Engaged. Yes, to be sure, why not? It seems to me that's a very serious thing, Miss Niner. Serious? Ha-ha-ha! Said the little beauty, seating herself on one arm of the sofa, and shaking the glittering hat back from her eyes. Well, I fancy it was, to him at least. I made him serious, I can tell you. But is this true, Miss Niner? Are you really engaged? Yes, to be sure I am, to three gentlemen, and going to stay so till I find which I like best. Maybe you know I shan't like any of them. Engaged to three gentlemen, Miss Niner? To be sure, can't you understand English, Harry? I am now, that. Miss Niner, is that right? Right? Why not? I don't know which to take. I positively don't, so I took them all on trial, you know. Pray, Miss Niner, tell me who they are. Well, there's Mr. Carson, he's a rich old bachelor, horridly polite, one of those little bobbing men that always have such shiny dickies and collars, and such bright booze, and such tight straps, and he's rich, and perfectly wild about me. He wouldn't take no for an answer, you know, so I just said yes, to have a little quiet. Besides, he is very convenient about the opera, and concerts, and such things. Well, and the next? Well, the next is George Emmons. He's one of your pink and white men, you know, who look like cream candy, as if they were good to eat. He's a lawyer of a good family, thought a good deal of, and all that. Well, really, they say he has talents. I'm no judge. I know he always bores me to death, asking me if I have read this or that, marking places in books that I never read. He's your sentimental sort, writes the most romantic notes on pink paper, and all that sort of thing. And the third? Well, you see, I don't like him a bit, I'm sure I don't. He's a hateful creature, he isn't handsome, he's proud as Lucifer, and I'm sure I don't know how he got me to be engaged. It was a kind of accident. He's real good though, too good for me, that's a fact. But then, I'm afraid of him a little. And his name? Well, his name is Clayton, Mr. Edward Clayton, at your service. He's one of your high and mighty people, with such a deep set eyes, eyes that look as if they were in a cave, and such black hair. And his eyes have a desperate sort of sad look, sometimes quite bironic. He's tall and rather loose-jointed, has beautiful teeth, his mouth, too, is, well, when he smiles, sometimes it really is quite fascinating, and then he's so different from other gentlemen. He's kind, but he don't care how he dresses and wears the most horrid shoes. And then he isn't polite. He won't jump, you know, to pick up your thread or scissors, and sometimes he'll just get into a brown study and let you stand 10 minutes before he thinks to give you a chair and all such provoking things. He isn't a bit of a lady's man. Well, consequence is, as my lord won't court the girls, the girls all court my lord. That's the way you know, and they seem to think it's a feather in their cap to get attention from him. Because, you know, he's horrid, sensible. So, you see, that just set me out to see what I could do with him. Well, you see, I wouldn't court him, and I plagued him and laughed at him and spied at him and got him gloriously wroth, and he said some spiteful things about me, and then I said some more about him, and we had a real up and down quarrel. And then I took a penitent turn, you know, and just went gracefully down into the valley of humiliation, as we witches can, and it took wonderfully, brought my lord on to his knees before he knew what he was doing. Well, really, I don't know what was the matter just then, but he spoke so earnest and strong that actually he got me to cry in, hateful creature, and I promised all sorts of things, you know, said altogether more than we'll bear thinking of. And are you corresponding with all these lovers, Miss Nina? Yes, isn't it fun? Their letters, you know, can't speak. If they could when they come rustling together in the bag, wouldn't there be a must? Miss Nina, I think you have given your heart to this last one. Oh, nonsense, Harry, haven't got any heart. Don't care two pens for any of them. All I want is to have a good time. As to love and all that, I don't believe I could love any of them. I should be tired to death of any of them in six weeks. I've never liked anything that long. Miss Nina, you must excuse me, but I want to ask again, is it right to trifle with the feelings of gentlemen in this way? Why not? Isn't all fair in war? Don't they trifle with us girls every chance they get and sit up so pompous in their rooms and smoke cigars and talk us over as if they only had to put out their finger and say, come here to get any of us? I tell you, it's fun to bring them down. Now, there's that horrid George Emmons. I tell you, if he didn't flirt all winter with Mary Stevens and got everybody to laughing about her, it was so evident, you see, that she liked him and she couldn't help showing it, poor little thing. And then my Lord would settle his collar and say he hadn't quite made up his mind to take her and all that. Well, I haven't made up my mind to take him either. And so poor Emma is avenged. As to the old batch that smooth the dicky man, you see, he can't be hurt for his heart is rubbed as smooth and hard as his dicky with falling in love and out again. He's been turned off by three girls now and his shoes squeak as brisk as ever and he's just as jolly. You see, he didn't used to be so rich. Lately, he's come into splendid property. So if I don't take him, poor man, there are enough that would be glad of him. Well then, but as to that other one. What? My Lord lofty? Oh, he wants humbly. It wouldn't hurt him in the least to be put down a little. He's good too and afflictions always improve good people. I believe I was made for a means of grace to him all. Miss Nina, what if all three of them should come at once or even two of them? What a droll idea. Wouldn't it be funny just to think of it? What a commotion. What a scene. It would really be vastly entertaining. Now, Miss Nina, I want to speak as a friend. No, you shant. It is just what people say when they're going to say something disagreeable. I told Clayton once for all that I wouldn't have him speak as a friend to me. Pray, how does he take all this? Take it? Why, just as he must. He cares a great deal more for me than I do for him. Here, a slight little sigh escaped the fair speaker. And I think it fun to shock him. You know, he is one of the fatherly sort who's always advising young girls. Let it be understood that his standard for female character is wonderfully high and all that. And then I think of his being tripped up before me. Hey, it is too funny. The littlest right here took off her opera hat and commenced waltzing a few steps and stopping mid-whirl, exclaming, oh, do you know weak girls have been trying to learn the chachucha? And I've got some castanets. Let me see, where are they? And with this she proceeded to upset the trunk from which flew a meteoric shower of bracelets, billy dews, French grammars, drawing pencils, interspersed with confectionery of various descriptions, and all the et cetera's of a schoolgirl's depository. There, upon my word, there are the bills you were asking for. There, take them, throwing a package of papers at the young man. Take them, can you catch? Ah, Miss Nana, these do not appear to be bills. Oh, bless me, those are love letters then. The bills are somewhere. And the little hands went pawing among the heap, making the fanciful collection fly in every direction over the carpet. Ah, I believe now in this bonbon box I did put them. Take care of your head, Harry. And with the word, the gilded missile flew from the little hand and opening on the way, showered Harry with a perfusion of crumpled papers. Now you've got them all, except one that I used for curlpapers the other night. Oh, don't look so sober about it. Indeed, I kept the pieces, here they are. And now don't you say, Harry, don't you tell me that I never saved my bills? You don't know how particular I have been and what trouble I have taken. But there, there's a letter Clayton wrote to me one time when we had a quarrel, just a specimen of that creature. Pray tell us about it, Miss Nana, say the young man with his eyes fixed admiringly on the little person while he was smoothing and arranging the crumpled documents. Why, you see, it was just this way. You know these men, how provoking they are. They'll go and read all sorts of books, no matter what they read. And then they are so dreadfully particular about us girls. Do you know, Harry, this always made me angry. Well, so you see, one evening, Sophie Elliott quoted some poetry from Don Juan. I never read it, but it seems folks call it a bad book. And my Lord Clayton immediately fixed his eyes upon her in such an appalling way and says, have you read Don Juan, Miss Elliott? Then, you know, as girls always do in such cases, she blushed and stammered and said her brother had read some extracts from it to her. I was vexed and said, and pray, what's the harm if she did read it? I mean, to read it's the very first chance I get. Oh, everybody looked so shocked. Why, dear me, if I had said I was going to commit murder, Clayton could not have looked more concerned. So he put on that very edifying air of his and said, Miss Nina, I trust as your friend that you will not read that book. I should lose all respect for a lady friend who had read that. Have you read it, Mr. Clayton, said I? Yes, Miss Nina, he said quite piously. What makes you read such bad books? Said I very innocently. Then there followed a general fuss and talk and the gentlemen, you know, who would not have their wives or their sisters read anything naughty for the world. They wanted us all to be like snowflakes and all that. And they were quite high telling they wouldn't marry this and they wouldn't marry that till at last I made them a curtsy and said, gentlemen, we ladies are infinitely obliged to you but we don't intend to marry people that read naughty books either. Of course, you know snowflakes don't like smut. Now I really didn't mean anything by it except to put down these men and stand up for my sex but Clayton took it in real earnest. He grew red and grew pale and was just as angry as he could be. Well, the quarrel raged about three days. Then do you know I made him give up and owned that he was in the wrong? There, I think he was too, don't you? Don't you think men ought to be as good as we are anyway? Miss Nina, I should think you would be afraid to express yourself so positively. Oh, if I care to sue for any of them, perhaps I should but there isn't one of the train that I would give that for. She said, flirting a shower of peanut shells into the air. Yes, but Miss Nina, sometime or other you must marry somebody. You need somebody to take care of the property and place. Oh, that's it, is it? You're tired of keeping accounts, are you? With me to spend the money? Well, I don't wonder how I pity anybody that keeps accounts, isn't it hard, Harry? Those awful books. Do you know that Madam Ardain set out that we girls should keep account of our expenses? I just tried it two weeks. I had a headache and weak eyes and actually nearly ruined my constitution. Somehow or other they gave it up. It gave them so much trouble. And what's the use? When money's spent, it's spent and keeping accounts ever so strict won't get it back. I'm very careful about my expenses. I never get anything that I can do without. For instance, said Harry rather roguishly, this bill of $100 for a confectionary. Well, you know how it is, Harry. It's so horrid to have to study. Girls must have something. And you know, I didn't get it all for myself. I gave it round to all the girls. Then they used to ask me for it and I couldn't refuse. And so it went. I didn't presume to comment, Ms. Nanna. What have we here? Madame Lecart, $450? Oh, Harry, that horrid Madame Lecart. You never saw anything like her. Positively, it is not my fault. She puts down things I never got. I know she does. Nothing in the world, but because she is from Paris, everybody is complaining of her, but then nobody gets anything anywhere else. So what can one do, you know? I assure you, Harry, I am economical. The young man who had been summing up the accounts now burst out into such a hearty laugh as somewhat disconcerted the fair rhetoricition. She colored to her temples. Harry, now for shame. Positively, you aren't respectful. Oh, Ms. Nanna, on my knees, I beg pardon. Still continuing to laugh, but indeed you must excuse me. I'm positively delighted to hear of your economy, Ms. Nanna. Well, now, Harry, you may look at the bills and see. Haven't I ripped up all my silk dresses and had them colored over just to economize? You can see the dire spill there. And Madame Cartou told me she always expected to turn my dresses twice at least. Oh, yes, I have been very economical. I have heard of old dresses turned costing more than new ones, Ms. Nanna. Oh, nonsense, Harry. What should you know of girls' things? But I'll tell you one thing I've got, Harry, and that is a gold watch for you. There it is, throwing a case carelessly towards him, and there's a silk dress for your wife, throwing him a little parcel. I have sense enough to know what a good fellow you are at any rate. I couldn't go on as I do if you didn't rack your poor head 50 ways to keep things going straight here at home for me. A host of conflicting emotions seemed to cross the young man's face, like a shadow of clouds over a field, as he silently undid the packages. His hands trembled, his lips quivered, but he said nothing. Come, Harry, don't this suit you? I thought it would. Ms. Nanna, you are too kind. No, I'm not, Harry. I'm a selfish little concern. That's a fact, she said, turning away, and pretending not to see the feeling which agitated him. But Harry, wasn't it drove this morning when all our people came up to get their presents? There was Aunt Sue and Aunt Tyke and Aunt Kate. Each one got a new sack pattern in which they are going to make up the prince I brought them. In about two days, our place will be flaming with aprons and sacks. And did you see Aunt Rose in that pink bonnet with the flowers? You could see every tooth in her head. Of course, now they'll be taken with a very pious streak and go to some camp meeting or other to show their finery. Why don't you laugh, Harry? I do, don't I, Ms. Nanna? You only laugh on your face. You don't laugh down deep. What's the matter? I don't believe it's good for you to read and study so much. Papa used to say that he didn't think it was good for... She stopped, checked by the expression on the face of her listener. For servants, Ms. Nanna, your papa said, I suppose. With the quick tact of her sex, Nanna perceived that she had struck some disagreeable chord in the mind of her faithful attendant and she hastened to change the subject in her careless, rattling way. Why, yes, Harry, study is horrid for you or me either or anybody else, except musty old people who don't know how to do anything else. Did ever anybody look out of doors such a pleasant day as this and want to study? Think of a bird studying now or a bee. They don't study, they live. Now, I don't want to study, I want to live. So now, Harry, if you'll just get the ponies and go in the woods, I want to get some jesemines and spring beauties and wild honeysuckles and all the rest of the flowers that I used to get before I went away to school. End of chapter one. The Mistress of Kanema. Chapter two of Dread, a tale of the great dismal swamp by Harriet Beecher Stowe. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by William Jones, Benita Springs, Florida. Dread. Chapter two. Clayton. The curtain rises on our next scene and discovers a tranquil library illuminated by the slant rays of the afternoon's sun. On one side, the room opened by long glass windows onto a garden, from whence the air came in perfumed with the breath of roses and honeysuckles. The floor covered with white batting. The couches and sofas, robed in smooth, glazed linen, gave an air of freshness and coolness to the apartment. The walls were hung with prints of the great masterpieces of European art, while bronzes and plaster casts distributed with taste and skill gave evidence of artistic culture in the general arrangement. Two young men were sitting together near the open window at a small table, which displayed an antique coffee set of silver and a silver tray of ices and fruits. One of these has already been introduced to the notice of our readers in the description of our heroine in the last chapter. Edward Clayton, the only son of Judge Clayton and representative of one of the oldest and most distinguished families of North Carolina, was in personal appearance much what our lively young friend had sketched, tall, slender, with a sort of loose jointedness and carelessness of dress, which might have produced an impression of clownishness, had had not been relieved by a refined and intellectual expression on the head and face. The upper part of the face gave the impression of thoughtfulness and strength with a shadowing of melancholy earnestness. And there was about the eye in conversation that occasional gleam of troubled wildness which betrays the hypochondriac temperament. The mouth was even feminine in the delicacy and beauty of its lines and the smile which sometimes played around it had a peculiar fascination. It seemed to be a smile of but half the man's nature for it never rolls as high as the eyes or seemed to disturb the dark stillness of their thoughtfulness. The other speaker was in many respects a contrast and we will introduce him to our readers by the name of Frank Russell. Furthermore, for their benefit, we will premise that he was the only son of a once distinguished and wealthy but now almost decayed family of Virginia. It is supposed by many that friendship is best founded upon similarity of nature but observation teaches that it is more common by a union of opposites in which each party is attracted to something wanting in itself. In Clayton, the great preponderance of those faculties which draw a man inward and impair the efficiency of the outward life inclined him to overvalue the active and practical faculties because he saw them constantly attended with a kind of success which he fully appreciated but was unable to attain. Perfect ease of manner, ready presence of mind under all social exigencies, adroitness in making the most of passing occurrences or qualities which are seldom the gift of sensitive and deeply thoughtful natures and which for this very reason they are often disposed to overvalue. Russell was one of those men who have just enough of all the higher faculties to appreciate their existence in others and not enough of anyone to disturb the perfect availability of his own mind. Everything in his mental furnishing was always completely under his own control and on hand for use at a moment's notice. From infancy he was noted for a quick tact and ready reply. At school he was the universal factotum, the good fellow of the ring, heading all the mischief among the boys and yet walking with exemplary gravity on the blind side of the master. Many a scrape had he rescued Clayton from into which he had fallen from a more fastidious moral sense, a more scrupulous honor than his four worldly profit either in the boys or man's sphere, and Clayton, superior as he was, could not help loving and depending on him. The diviner part of man is often shame-faced and self-destructful, ill at home in this world and standing in awe of nothing so much as what is called common sense and yet common sense very often by its own keenness is able to see that these unavailable currencies of another's mind are of more worth if the world only knew it than the ready coin of its own and so the practical and the ideal nature are drawn together. So Clayton in Russell had been friends from boyhood, had roomed together in their four years in college and through instruments of a vastly different quality had hitherto played the concerts of life with scarce a discord. In person Russell was of about the medium size with a well-knit elastic frame, all whose movements were characterized by sprightliness and energy. He had a frank, open countenance, clear blue eyes, a high forehead shaded by clusters of curling brown hair. His flexible lips wore a good natured, yet half-sercastic smile. His feelings, though not inconveniently deep, were easily touched. He could be moved to tears or to smiles with the varying humor of a friend, but never so far as to lose his equipoise or as he phrased it, forget what he was about. But we lingered too long in description. We had better let the reader hear that dramatic person I and judge for himself. Well now Clayton said Russell as he leaned back in a stuffed leather chair with a cigar between his fingers. How considerate of them to go off on that marooning party and leave us to ourselves here. I say, oh boy, how goes the world now? Reading law, eh? Book to be Judge Clayton II? Now my dear fellow, if I had the opportunities that you have only to step into my father's shoes I should be a lucky fellow. Well you are welcome to all my chances said Clayton, throwing himself on one of the lounges, for I began to see that I shall make very little of them. Why, what's the matter? Don't you like the study? Well the study, perhaps well enough, but not the practice. Reading the theory is always magnificent and grand. Law hath her seed in the bosom of God, her voice is the harmony of the world. You remember we used to reclaim that, but then come to the practice of it and what do you find? Are legal examinations anything like searching after truth? Does not an advocate commit himself to one-sided views of his subject and habitually ignore all the truth on the other side? Why, if I practice law according to my conscience I should be chased out of court in a week. There you are again, Clayton, with your everlasting conscience, which has been my plague ever since you were a boy and I have never been able to convince you what a humbug it is. It's what I call a crotchety conscience, always in the way of your doing anything like anybody else. I suppose then, of course, you won't go into political life, great pity too. You'd make a very imposing figure as a senator. You have exactly the cut for a conscript father, one of the old Vire Romani. And what do you think the old Vire Romani would do in Washington? What sort of a figure do you think Regulus or Quintus Curtius or Boussius Saivola would make there? Well, to be sure, the style of political action has altered somewhat since those days. If political duties were what they were then, if a Gulf would open in Washington, for example, you would be the fellow to plunge in horse and all for the good of the Republic. Or if anything was to be done by putting your right hand in the fire and burning it off, or if there were any Carthaginians who would cut off your eyelids or roll you downhill in a barrel of nails, for truth and your country's sake, you would be on hand for any such matter. That's the sort of foreign embassy that you would be after. All these old fashioned goings on would suit you to a tee. But as to figuring in purple and fine linen in Paris or London as American minister, you would make a dismal business of it. But still I thought you might practice law in a wholesome, sensible way. Take fees and make pleas with abundance of classical illusions. Show off your scholarship. Marry a rich wife and make your children princes in the gates all without treading on the toes of your two sensitive moral, what do you call them? But you've done one thing, like the other folks at least, if it's all true what I've heard. And what is that, I pray? What's that? You're the fellow now. How innocent we are. I suppose you think I haven't heard of your campaign in New York carrying off that princess of little flirts, Miss Gordon. Clayton responded to the charge only with a slight shrug and a smile in which not only his lips, but his eyes took part while the color mounted to his forehead. Now, do you know, Clayton, continued Russell, I like that. Do you know I always thought I should detest the woman that you should fall in love with? It seemed to me that such a pretentious combination of all the virtues as you were planning for would be something like a comet, an alarming spectacle. Do you remember, I should like to know if you do, just what that woman was to be? Was to have all the learning of a man, all the graces of a woman, I think I have it by heart, she was to be practical, poetical, pious and everything else that begins with a P. She was to be elegant and earnest, take deep and extensive views of life and there was to be a certain air about her, half Madonna, half Venus, made of every creature's best. Ah, bless me, what poor creatures we are. Here comes along our little coquette, flirting, tossing her fan, picks you up like a great solid chip as you are and throws you into her chip basket of both and goes on dancing and flirting as before. Aren't you ashamed of it now? No, I'm really much like the minister in our town, where we fitted for college, who married a pretty Polly Peters in his 60th year and when the elders came to inquire if she had the requisite qualifications for a pastor's lady, he told them that he didn't think she had, but the fact is, brethren, said he, although I don't pretend that she is a saint, she is a very pretty little sinner and I love her. Well, that's just my case, very sensibly said and you know, as I told you before, I'm perfectly delighted with it because it is acting like other folks. But then, my dear fellow, do you think you have come to anything really solid with this little Venus of the Seafoam? Isn't it much the same as being engaged to a cloud or a butterfly? One wants a little streak of reality about a person that one must take for better or for worse. You have a deep nature, Clayton. You really want a wife who will have some glimmering perception of the difference between you and the other things that walk and wear coats and are called men. Well, then really, said Clayton, rousing himself and speaking with energy, I'll tell you just what it is. Nina Gordon is a flirt and a coquette, a spoiled child, if you will. She is not at all the person I ever expected would obtain any power over me. She has no culture, no reading, no habits of reflection, but she has, after all, a certain tone and quality to her, a certain timbre, as a French say of voices, which suits me. There is about her a mixture of energy, individuality, and shrewdness, which makes her, all uninformed as she is, more pecan and attractive than any woman I ever fell in with. She never reads. It is almost impossible to get her to read. But if you can catch her ear for five minutes, her literary judgments have a peculiar freshness and truth. And so, with her judgment of all other subjects, if you can stop her long enough to give you an opinion. As to Hart, I think she has yet a wholly unawakened nature. She has lived only in the world of sensation, and that is so abundant and so buoyant in her that the deeper part still sleeps. It is only two or three times that I have seen a flash of this undernature look from her eyes and color her voice and intonation. And I believe I am quite sure that I am the only person in the world that ever touched it at all. I'm not at all sure that she loves me now, but I am almost equally sure that she will. Well, they say, said Russell carelessly, that she is generally engaged at two or three at a time. Well, that may be so, said Clayton, indolently, I rather suspect it to be the case now, but it gives me no concern. I've seen all the men by whom she is surrounded, and I know perfectly well there's not one of them that she cares a rush for. Well, but, my dear fellow, how can your extra fastidious moral notions stand the idea of her practicing this system of deception? Well, of course, it isn't a thing to my taste, but then, like the old person, if I love the little sinner, what am I to do? I suppose you think it's a lover's paradox. Yet I assure you, though she deceives, she is not deceitful, and though she acts selfishly, she is not selfish. The fact is the child has grown up motherless and an heiress among servants. She has, I believe, a sort of an aunt or some such relative who nominally represents the head of the family to the eye of the world. But I fancy little madam has had full sway. Then she has been to a fashionable New York boarding school, and that has developed the talent of shirking lessons and evading rules with a taste for sidewalk flirtation. These are all the attainments that I ever heard of being got at a fashionable boarding school, unless it be a hatred of books and a general dread of literary culture. And her estates are nothing very considerable, managed nominally by an old uncle of hers, really by a very clever quadruped servant who has left her by her father and who has received an education and has talents very superior to what are common to those in his class. He is, in fact, the overseer of her plantation and I believe the most loyal, devoted creature breathing. Clayton, said his companion, this affair might not be much to one who takes the world as I do, but for you it may be a little too serious. Don't get in beyond your depth. Ah, you're too late, Russell. For that I am in. Well then, good luck to you, my dear fellow. And now, as we are about it, I may as well tell you that I'm in for it too. I suppose you have heard of Miss Benoit of Baltimore? Well, she is my fate. And are you really engaged? All signs sealed and to be delivered next Christmas. Oh, let me hear about her. Well, she is of a good height. I always said I shouldn't marry a short woman. Not handsome, but reasonably well looking. Very fine manners, knows the world, plays and sings handsomely, has a snug little fortune. Now, you know, I never held to marrying for money and nothing else, but then, as I'm situated, I could not have fallen in love without that requisite. Some people call this heartless. I don't think it is. If I had met Mary Benoit and had known that she hadn't anything, why, I should have known that it wouldn't do for me at all to cultivate any particular intimacy. But knowing she had fortune, I looked a little further and found she had other things too. Now, if that's marrying for money, so be it. Yours, Clayton, is a genuine case of falling in love. But as for me, I walked in with my eyes wide opened. And what are you going to do with yourself in the world, Russell? I must get into practice and get some foothold there, you know. And then, hey, for Washington, I'm to be president like every other adventure in these United States. Why not I as well as another man? Well, I don't know, certainly, said Clayton, if you want it and are willing to work hard enough and long enough and pay all the price, I would have soon spent my life walking the drawn sword, which they say is the bridge to Mohammed's Paradise. Ah, ah, I fancy I see you doing it. What a figure you would make, my dear fellow, balancing and posturing on the sword blade and making horrid rye faces. Yet I know you'd be as comfortable there as you would in political life. And yet, after all, you are greatly superior to me in every respect. It would be a thousand pities if such a man as you couldn't have the management of things. But our national ship has to be navigated by second-rate fellows, Jericho-Nimbles, like me, simply because we are good in dodging and turning. But that's the way, sharps the word and sharpest wins. For my part, said Clayton, I shall never be what the world calls a successful man. There seems to be one inscription written over every passage of success in life as far as I've seen. What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? I don't understand you, Clayton. Why, it seems to me, just this, as matters are going on now in our country, I must either lower my standards of right and honor and sear my soul in all its noble sensibilities, or I must be what the world calls an unsuccessful man. There is no path in life that I know of where humbuggery and fraud and deceit are not essential to success. None where a man can make the purity of his moral nature the first object. I see Satan standing in every avenue saying all those things I will give thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me. Well, why don't you take to the ministry then, Clayton, at once and put up a pulpit cushion and a big Bible between you and the fiery darts of the devil? I'm afraid I should meet him there, too. I could not gain a right to speak in any pulpit without some profession or pledge to speak this or that. That would be a snare to my conscience by and by. At the door of every pulpit, I must swear always to find truth in a certain formula and living, prosperity, success, reputation will all be pledged on my finding it there. I tell you, I should, if I've followed my own conscience, preach myself out of pulpits quicker than I should plead out at the bar. Lord, help you, Clayton, what will you do? Will you settle down on your plantation and raise cotton and sell niggers? I'm expecting to hear every minute that you've subscribed for the liberator and are going to turn abolitionist. I do mean to settle down on my plantation but not to raise cotton or niggers as a chief end of man. I do take the liberator because I'm a free man and have a right to take what I have a mind to. I don't agree with Garrison because I think I know more about the matter where I stand than he does or can where he stands. But it's his right as an honest man to say what he thinks and I should use it in his place. If I saw things as he does, I should be an abolitionist but I don't. That's a mercy at least, said Russell, to a man with your taste for murderdom but what are you going to do? What any Christian man should do who finds 400 odd of his fellow men and women placed in a state of absolute dependence on him. I'm going to educate and fit them for freedom. There isn't a sublimer power on earth than God has given to us masters. The law gives us absolute and unlimited control. A plantation such as a plantation might be would be a light to light in the Gentiles. There is a wonderful and beautiful development locked up in this Ethiopian race and it is worth being a life object to unlock it. The raising of cotton is to be the least of the thing. I regard my plantation as a sphere for raising men and women and demonstrating the capabilities of a race. Say la, said Russell. Clayton looked angry. I beg your pardon. Clayton, this is all superb, sublime. There is just one objection to it. It is wholly impossible. Every good and great thing has been called impossible before it is done. Well, let me tell you, Clayton, just how it will be. You will be a mark for arrows, both sides. You will offend all your neighbors by doing better than they do. You will bring your Negroes up to a point in which they will meet the current of the whole community against them. And meanwhile, you will get no credit with the abolitionists. They will call you a cutthroat pirate sheepsteer and all the rest of their elegant little list of embellishments all the same. You'll get a state of things that nobody can manage but yourself and you by the hardest. And then you'll die and it'll all run to the devil faster than you run it up. Now, if you would do the things by halves, it wouldn't be so bad. But I know you have old. You won't be satisfied with teaching a catechism and a few hymns, parrot-wise, which I think is a respectable religious amusement for our women. You teach them all to read and write and think and speak. I shouldn't wonder to hear of an importation of blackboards and spelling books. You'll want a lyceum and debating society. Pray, what does sister Anne say to all this? Anne is a sensible girl now, but I'll warn't you, you've got her to go in for it. Anne is as much interested as I, but her practical tact is greater than mine and she is of use in detecting difficulties that I do not see. I have an excellent man who enters fully into my views, who takes charge of the business interests of the plantation instead of one of these scoundrel overseers. There's to be a graduated system of work and wages introduced, a system that shall teach the nature and rights of property and train to habits of industry and frugality by making every man's requirements equal to his industry and good conduct. And what sort of support do you expect to make out of all this? Are you going to live for them or are they for you? I shall set them the example of living for them and trust to awaken the good that is in them in return. The strong ought to live for the weak, the cultivated for the ignorant. Well, Clayton, the Lord help you. I'm in earnest now, in fact. Though I know you won't do it, yet I wish you could. It's a pity, Clayton, that you were born in this world. It isn't you but our planet and planetary ways that are in fault. Your mind is a splendid storehouse, gold and gems of au pair, but they are all up in the fifth story and no staircase to get them down into common life. Now, I've just enough appreciation of the sort of thing that's in you, not to laugh at you. Nine out of 10 would. To tell you the truth, if I were already set up in life and had as definite a position as you have, you family, friends, influence and means, why perhaps I might afford to cultivate this style of thing. But I tell you what it is, Clayton, such a conscience as yours is cursively expensive to keep. It's like a carriage. A fellow mustn't set it up unless he can't afford it. It's one of the luxuries. It's a necessary of life with me, said Clayton dryly. Well, that's your nature. I can't afford it. I've got my way to make. I must succeed. And with your ultra motions I couldn't succeed. So there it is. After all, I can be as religious as dozens of your most respectable men who have taken their seats in the night train for paradise and keep the daylight for their own business. I dare say you can. Yes, and I shall get all I aim at. And you, Clayton, will always be an unhappy, dissatisfied aspirant after something too high for morality. There is the difference between us. This conversation was here interrupted by the return of the family party. End of Dread, chapter two, Clayton. Chapter three of Dread, a tale of the great dismal swamp by Harriet Beecher Stowe. This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. Recording by William Jones, Manita Springs, Florida. Chapter three, The Clayton Family and Sister Ann. The family party, which was now ushered in, consisted of Clayton's father, mother, and sister. Judge Clayton was a tall, dignified, elderly personage, and whom one recognized at a glance the gentlemen of the old school. His hair, snowy white, formed a singular contrast with the brightness of his blue eyes, whose peculiar acuteness of glance might remind one of a falcon. There is something stately in the position of the head and the carriage of the figure, and a punctilious exactness in the whole air and manner, which gave one a slight impression of sternness. The clear, sharp blue of his eye seemed to be that of a calm and decided intellect of illogical severity of thought, and contrasted with a silvery hair with that same expression of cold beauty that is given by contrast of snow mountains cutting into the keen metallic blue of an alpine sky. One should apprehend much to fear from such a man's reason, little to hope from any outburst of his emotional nature. Yet, as a man, perhaps injustice was done to judge Clayton by this first impression, for there was deep beneath this external coldness a severely repressed nature of the most fiery and passionate vehemence. His family affections were strong and tender, seldom manifested in words, but always by the most exact appreciation and consideration for all who came within his sphere. He was strictly and impartially just in all the little minutiae of social and domestic life, never hesitating to speak a truth or acknowledge an error. Mrs. Clayton was a high-bred elderly lady whose well-preserved delicacy of complexion, brilliant dark eyes and fine figure, spoke of a youth of beauty, of a nature imaginative, impulsive and ardent, inclining constantly to generous extremes she had thrown herself with passionate devotion round her clear-judging husband as the alpine rose girdles with beauty, the breast of the bright pure glacier. Between Clayton and his father, there existed an affection deep and entire. Yet, as the sun developed into manhood, it became increasingly evident that they could never move harmoniously in the same practical orbit. The nature of the sun was so veined and crossed with that of the mother that the father, in attempting the age-long and often-tried experiment of making his child an exact copy of himself, found himself extremely puzzled and confused in the operation. Clayton was ideal to an excess. Ideality colored every faculty of his mind and swayed all his reasonings as an unseen magnet will swerve the needle. Ideality pervaded his conscientiousness, urging him always to rise above the commonly-received and so-called practical in morals. Hence, while he worshipped the theory of law, the practice filled him with disgust and his father was obliged constantly to point out deficiencies in reasoning, founded more on a keen appreciation of what things ought to be than on a practical regard to what they are. Nevertheless, Clayton partook enough of his father's strong and steady nature to be his mother's idol, who perhaps loved the second rendering of the parental nature with even more doting tenderness than the first. And Clayton was the oldest of three sisters and the special companion and confidant of the brother. And as she stands there untying her bonnet strings, we must also present her to the reader. She is a little above the medium height, with that breadth and full development of chest, which one admires in English women. She carries her well-formed head on her graceful shoulders with a positive, decided air, only a little on this side of haughtiness. Her clear, brown complexion reddens into a fine glow in the cheek, giving one the impression of sound, perfect health. The positive outline of the small, equity nose, the large, frank, well-formed mouth with its clear rows of shining teeth, the brown eyes which have caught something of the falcon keenness of the father, or points in the picture by no means to be overlooked. Taking her air altogether, there was an honest frankness about her which encouraged conversation and put one instantly at ease. Yet no man in his senses could ever venture to take the slightest liberty with Anne Clayton. With all her frankness there was ever in her manner a perfectly defined, thus far shalt thou come and no further. Bows, suitors, lovers in abundance had stood knelt inside protesting at her shrine. Yet Anne Clayton was 27 and unmarried. Everybody wondered why. And as to that we can only wonder with the rest. Her own account of the matter was simple and positive. She did not wish to marry, was happy enough without. The intimacy between the brother and sister had been more than usually strong, notwithstanding marked differences of character. For Anne had not a particle of ideality. Since she had a shrewdness and a pleasant dash of humor with all, but she was eminently what people call a practical girl. She admired highly, the contrary of all this in her brother. She delighted in a poetic heroic element in him for much the same reason that young ladies used to admire Thaddeus of Warsaw and William Wallace because it was something quite out of her line. In the whole world of ideas, she had an almost idolatrous veneration for her brother. In the sphere of practical operations, she felt free to assert with a certain good-natured positiveness her own superiority. There is no one in the world perhaps of whose judgment in this respect Clayton stood more in awe. At the present juncture of affairs, Clayton felt himself rather awkwardly embarrassed in communicating to her an event what she would immediately feel she had a right to know before. A sister of Anne Clayton's positive character does not usually live 27 years in constant intimacy with a brother like Clayton without such an attachment as renders the first announcement of the contemplated marriage somewhat painful. Why then, had Clayton, who always unreservedly corresponded with his sister, not kept her apprised of his gradual attachment to Nina? The secret of the matter was that he had had an instinctive consciousness that he should not present Nina to the practical, clear-judging mind of a sister as she appeared through the mist and spray of his imaginative nature. The hard facts of her case would be sure to tell against her in any communication he might make. And sensitive people never liked the fatigue of justifying their instincts. Nothing, in fact, is less capable of being justified by technical reasons than those fine insights into character whereupon affections are built. We have all had experience of preferences which would not follow the most exactly ascertained catalog of virtues and would be made captive where there was very little to be said in justification of the captivity. But meanwhile, rumor, always busy, had not failed to convey to Anne Clayton some suspicions of what was passing. And though her delicacy and pride forbade any allusion to it, she keenly felt the want of confidence and, of course, was not any more charitably disposed towards the little rival for this reason. But now the matter had attained such a shape in Clayton's mind that he felt the necessity of apprising his family and friends. With his mother, the task was made easier by the abundant hopefulness of her nature which enabled her in a moment to throw herself into the sympathies of those she loved. To her had been deputed the office of first breaking the tidings to Anne and she had accomplished it during the pleasure party of the morning. The first glance that passed between Clayton and his sister as she entered the room on her return from the party showed him that she was discomposed and unhappy. She did not remain long in the apartment or seem disposed to join in conversation. And after a few abstracted moments she passed through the open door into the garden and began to busy herself apparently among her plants. Clayton followed her. He came and stood silently beside her for some time watching her as she picked the dead leaves off her geranium. Mother has told you, he said alas. Yes, said Anne. There was a long pause and Anne picked off dry leaves and green promiscuously threatening to demolish the bush. Anne said, Clayton, how I wish you could see her. I've heard of her, replied Anne Riley, through the living-stance. And what have you heard? said Clayton eagerly. Not such things as I could wish, Edward, not such as I expected to hear of the lady that you would choose. And pray, what have you heard? Not with it, said Clayton. Let's know what the world says of her. Well, the world says, said Anne, that she is a coquette, a flirt, a jilt. From all I've heard, I should think she must be an unprincipled girl. That is hard language, Anne. Truth is generally hard, replied Anne. My dear sister, said Clayton, taking her hand and sitting her on the seat in the garden. Have you lost all faith in me? I think it would be nearer the truth, replied Anne, to say that you had lost all faith in me. Why am I the last one to know of all this? Why am I to hear it first from reports and every way but from you? Would I have treated you so? Did I ever have anything that I did not tell you? Down to my very soul, I've always told you everything. Well, this is true, I own, dear Anne, but what if you had loved some man that you felt sure I would not like? Now, you are a positive person, Anne, and this might happen. Would you want to tell me at once? Would you not perhaps wait and hesitate and put off for one reason or another from day to day and find it grow more and more difficult, the longer you wait it? I can't tell, said Anne bitterly. I never did love anyone better than you. That's the trouble. Oh, neither do I love anybody better than you, Anne. The love I have for you is a whole perfect thing, just as it was. See if you do not find me every way as devoted. My heart was only open to take in another love, another wholly different, and which because it is so wholly different can never infringe on the love I bear to you. And Anne, my dear sister, if you could love her as a part of me, I wish I could, said Anne, somewhat softened, but what I've heard has been so unfavorable. She is not, in the least, the person I should have expected you to fancy, Edward. Of all things, I despise a woman who trifles with the affections of gentlemen. Well, but, my dear, Nina isn't a woman. She is a child, a gay, beautiful, unformed child, and I'm sure you may apply to her what Pope says. If to her shares some female errors fall, look in her face and you forget them all. Yes, indeed, said Anne, I believe all you men are alike, a pretty face bewitches any of you. I thought you were an exception, Edward, but there you are. But Anne, is this the way to encourage my confidence? Suppose I am bewitched and enchanted. You cannot disentangle me without indulgence. Save what you will about it. The fact is just this. It is my fate to love this child. I have tried to love many women before. I have seen many whom I knew no sort of reason why I shouldn't love. Handsome or far, more cultivated, more accomplished, and yet I've seen them without a movement or flutter of the pulse. But this girl has awakened all there is to me. I do not see in her what the world sees. I see the ideal image of what she can be. What I'm sure she will be when her nature is fully awakened and developed. Just there, Edward, just that, said Anne, you never see anything that is. You see a glorified image, a something that might, could, would, or should be. That is your difficulty. You glorify an ordinary boarding school cold cat and do something symbolic, sublime. You clothe her with all your own ideas, then fall down to worship her. Well, my dear Anne, suppose it were so, what then? I am, as you say, ideal, you, real. Well, be it so. I must act according to what is in me. I have a right to my nature, you to yours, but it is not every person whom I can idealize. And I suspect this is the great reason why I never could love some very fine women with whom I have associated on intimate terms. They had no capacity of being idealized. They could receive no color from my fancy. They wanted, in short, just what Nina has. She is just like one of those little, whisking, chattering cascades in the white mountains and the atmosphere round her is favorable to rainbows. And you always see her through them. Even so, sister, but some people I cannot. Why should you find fault with me? It's a pleasant thing to look through a rainbow. Why should you seek to disenchant if I can be enchanted? Why, replied Anne, you remember the man who took his pay of the fairies in gold and diamonds and after he had passed a certain brook, found it all turned to slate stones? Now marriage is like that brook. Many a poor fellow finds his diamonds turned to slate on the other side. And this is why I put in my plain, hard common sense against your visions. I see the plain facts about this young girl that she is an acknowledged flirt, a noted coquette and jilt and a woman who is so is necessarily heartless. And you are too good, Edward, too noble. I have loved you too long to be willing to give you up to such a woman. There, my dear Anne, there are at least a dozen points in that sense to which I don't agree. In the first place, as to coquetry, it isn't the unpardonable sin in my eyes. But that is under some circumstances. That is, you mean, when Nina Gordon is the coquette? No, I don't mean that. But the fact is, Anne, there is so little of true sincerity, so little real benevolence and charity in the common intercourse of young gentlemen and ladies in society. And our sex, who ought to set the example, are so selfish and unprincipled in their ways of treating women that I do not wonder that now and then a lively girl who has the power avenges her sex by playing off our weak points. Now, I don't think Nina capable of trifling with a real deep, unselfish attachment. I love which sought her good and was willing to sacrifice itself for her. But I don't believe any such has ever been put at her disposal. There is a great difference between a man's wanting a woman to love him and loving her. Wanting to appropriate a woman as a wife does not, of course, imply that a man loves her or that he is capable of loving anything. All these things girls feel because their instincts are quick and they are often accused of trifling with a man's heart when they only see through him and know he hasn't any. Besides, love of power has always been considered a respectable sin in us men and why should we do not say woman for loving her kind of power? Oh, well, Edward, there isn't anything in the world that you cannot theorize into beauty but I don't like coquettes for all that. And then I'm told Nina Gordon is so very odd and says and does such very extraordinary things sometimes. Well, perhaps that charms me the more in this conventional world where women are all rubbed into one uniform surface like coins in one's pocket, it's a pleasure now and then to find one who can't be made to do and think like all the rest. You have a little dash of this marriage yourself, Ann, but you must consider that you have been brought up with mama under her influence trained and guided every hour even more than you knew. Nina has grown up an heiress among servants, a boarding school girl in New York and furthermore, you are 27 and she is 18 and a great deal maybe learned between 18 and 27. But brother, you remember Miss Hannah Moore says or some of those good women I forget who at any rate is a sensible saying that a man who chooses his wife as he would a picture in a public exhibition room should remember that there is this difference, that the picture cannot go back to the exhibition but the woman may. You have chosen her from seeing her brilliancy in society but after all, can you make her happy in the dull routine of a commonplace life? Is she not one of the sort that must have a constant round of company and excitement to keep her in spirits? I think not, said Clayton. I think she is one of those whose vitality is within herself and one whose freshness and originality will keep life anywhere from being commonplace and that living with us she will sympathize naturally in all our pursuits. Well now, don't flatter yourself brother that you can make this girl over and bring her to any of your standards. Who I? Do you think I meditated such an impertinence? The last thing I should try to marry a wife to educator is generally one of the most selfish tricks of our sex. Besides, I don't want a wife who will be a mere mirror of my opinions and sentiments. I don't want an innocent sheet of blotting paper meekly sucking up all I say and giving a little fainter impression of my ideas. I want a wife for an alternative. All the vivacities of life lie in differences. Why surely, said Anne, one wants one's friends to be congenial, I should think. So we do and there's nothing in the world so congenial as differences. To be sure, the differences must be harmonious. In music now, for instance, one doesn't want a repetition of the same notes but differing notes that chord. Nay, even discords are indispensable to complete harmony. No, Nina has just that difference from me which chords with me and all our little quarrels for we have had a good many and I dare say she'll have more or only a sort of chromatic passages, discords of the seventh leading into harmony. My life is inward, theorizing, self-absorbed. I am a hypochondriac, often morbid. The vivacity and acuteness of her outer life makes her just what I need. She awakens, she rouses and keeps me in play and her quick instincts are often more than a match for my reason. I reverence the child then in spite of her faults. She has taught me many things. Well, said Anne laughing, I give you up if it comes to that. If you come to talk about reverencing Nina Gordon, I see it's all over with you, Edward, and I'll be good-natured and make the best of it. I hope it may all be true what you think and a great deal more. At all events, no effort of mine shall be wanting to make you as happy in your new relation as you ought to be. There now, that's Anne Clayton. It's just like you, sister and I couldn't say anything better than that. You have unburdened your conscience, you have done all you can for me, and now, very properly, yielded to the inevitable. Nina, I know we'll love you and if you'd never try to advise her and influence her, you will influence her very much. Good people are along while learning that, Anne. They think to do good to others by interfering and advising. They don't know that all they have to do is to live. When I first knew Nina, I was silly enough to try my hand that way myself, but I've learned better. Now, when Nina comes to us, all that you and Mama have got to do is just to be kind to her and live as you always have lived and whatever needs to be altered in her, she will alter herself. Well, said Anne, I wish as it is so that I could see her. Suppose you wrote a few lines to her in this letter that I'm going to write and then that will lead in due time to a visit. Anything in the world, Edward, that you say. End of Dread chapter three, The Clayton Family and Sister Anne.