“Within reasonable bounds, yes,” answered Arthur, meditatively. “They are entitled to all the wholesome food they need, and to all the warm clothing, and to comfortable, wholesome quarters to live in. But we mustn’t leave the smoke house door unlocked. If we did that the dishonest ones among them would take all the meat and sell it, and the rest would starve. Besides, the white people are entitled to something. They take care of the negroes in sickness and in childhood and in old age. They must feed and clothe them and nurse them and have doctors for them no matter what it may cost. It is true, the negroes do the work that produces the food and clothing and all the rest of it, but their masters contribute the intelligent management that is quite as necessary as the work. Imagine this plantation, Dorothy, or your own Pocahontas, left to the negroes. They could do as much work as they do now, but do you suppose their crops would feed them till Christmas if there were no white man to manage for them?” “Of course not. Indeed they never would make a crop. Still I don’t like the system.” “Neither do I, Dorothy, but in the present state of the public mind neither of us must say so.” “Why not, Cousin Arthur? Is there any harm in telling the truth?” “Sometimes I suppose it is better to keep silence,” answered Arthur, hesitating. “For women, yes,” quickly responded the girl. “But men can fight. Why shouldn’t they tell the truth?” “I don’t quite understand your distinction, Dorothy.” “I’m not sure,” she answered, “that I understand it myself. Oh, yes, I do, now that I think of it. Women tell lies, of course, because they can’t fight. Or, if they don’t quite tell lies they at least keep silent whenever telling the truth would make trouble. That’s because they can’t fight. Men can fight, and so there’s not the slightest excuse for them if they tell lies or even if they keep silent.” “But, Dorothy, I don’t yet understand. Women can’t fight, of course, but then they are never called upon to fight. Why--”