“It were better that the whole group of islands were sunk in the depths of the sea,” said Flora, vehemently, “than continue to present to the world a system of injustice and cruelty, which is a disgrace to a Christian community—a spectacle of infamy to the civilized world. And do not think that the wise and good men who are engaged heart and hand in this holy cause, will cease their exertions until their great object is accomplished, and slavery is banished from the earth.” Mrs. Dalton stared at Flora in amazement. She could not in the least comprehend her enthusiasm. “Who cares for a slave?” she said, contemptuously. “You must live among them, and be conversant with their habits before you can understand their inferiority. One would think that you belonged to the Anti-Slavery Society to hear the warmth with which you argue the case. Do you belong to that odious society? for I understand that many pious women make themselves vastly busy in publicly discussing the _black_ question.” “I have many dear friends who are among its staunch supporters, both men and women; whose motives are purely benevolent; who have nothing to gain by the freedom of the slaves, beyond the satisfaction of endeavouring to forward a good work, which if it succeeds, (and we pray God that it may,) will restore a large portion of the human family to their rights as immortal and rational creatures.” “Mere cant—the vanity of making a noise in the world. One of the refined hypocrisies of the present age. By-the-bye, my dear Madam, have you read a tract published lately by this disinterested society, called the History of Mary P.? It is set forth to be an authentic narrative, while I know enough of the West Indies, to pronounce it a tissue of falsehoods from beginning to end.” “Did you know Mary P.?” “I wonder who does. It is an imaginary tale got up for party purposes.” “You are mistaken,” said Flora quietly. “That narrative is strictly true. I was staying the winter before last, with her mistress in London, and I wrote it myself from the woman’s own lips.” “You!” and Mrs. Dalton started from the ground as though she had been bitten by a serpent—“and I have been talking all this time to the author of Mary P. From this moment, Madam, we must regard ourselves as strangers. No West Indian could for a moment tolerate the writer of that odious pamphlet.” Mrs. Dalton retired to her berth, which was in the state cabin; and Flora lay awake for several hours, pondering over their conversation, until the morning broke, and the steamer cast anchor off Newhaven. CHAPTER XX. EDINBURGH. The storm had passed away during the night; and at day-break, Flora hurried upon deck, to catch the first glance of— “The glorious land of flood and fell, The noble north countrie.”